A Valentine Wish

by Gina Wilkins

  “I think I’ll go out for a walk,” he said. “It’s been a long day. I need to clear my mind with some fresh air.”

  To his relief, neither woman volunteered to accompany him. They must have sensed that he wanted to be alone.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. He didn’t want to be alone.

  He wanted—he needed—to be with Anna.

  HE WALKED STOWLY down the garden path, watching his steps in the darkness. He hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, but the full moon overhead gave just enough illumination for him to make his way in relative ease.

  Midnight, he thought. February 14. Valentine’s Day. It would have been Anna’s one hundredth birthday. The thought made him shiver.

  He hadn’t worn a jacket. The frosty night breeze bit through his shirtsleeves. His breath hung in the air ahead of him.

  He hardly noticed the cold. Only the silence.

  The garden shed had been torn down the day after Dean had been injured in it. He paused at the place where it had been, staring glumly at the pile of rubble waiting to be hauled away. He mentally replayed Anna’s frantic warning to him, the frightened, worried look in her eyes when she’d knelt beside him, sharing his suffering, despairing because she couldn’t do more to help him.

  He turned away and looked back toward the inn. There was a light burning in his bedroom window; he’d left the bedside lamp on. He remembered how Anna had come to him, had kissed his injuries and soothed his pain. How she’d left him wanting her with an ache that hadn’t receded since.

  An ache that would never be satisfied.

  Pushing aside those disturbing memories, he walked on, to the end of the path where he’d first felt that cold, macabre feeling. The place where he’d turned and spotted Anna, looking at him with a plea for help in her haunted eyes.

  He turned now, and saw nothing but the emptiness of the dark, winter-bare garden.

  He let out a long, ragged breath and tipped his head back. His eyes closed, and his chest ached with a despair that was all new to him.

  He was beginning to accept the fact that he might never see her again. That she was truly gone.

  His grief was the fresh, tearing pain of loss. And it was all the more agonizing because he couldn’t share it. His love had died in reality long before he was born; how could anyone else truly understand his mourning her now?

  “Anna,” he whispered, his throat raw. “Oh, God, Anna. I miss you.”

  “Dean?”

  At first he thought her voice still echoed in his memories, soft and musical and muted. Like the sound of distant wind chimes.

  And then she spoke again. “Dean.”

  He opened his eyes. She stood on the path in front of him, her white dress gleaming softly in the darkness, her face pale and solemn in the moonlight.

  The relief was almost overwhelming. “Anna.” He took a step closer, automatically reaching out to her with his left hand. “Anna—”

  She placed her hand in his, that familiar sensation of cool marble felt through a thin, frustrating barrier. Again, he experienced those odd, rippling, strange-but-not-unpleasant tingles from their contact.

  “Anna,” he said again, drinking her in with his eyes. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

  Her smile was sad. “We know what you’ve done, Dean,” she murmured, glancing up beside her. “We couldn’t have left without telling you how much it means to us.”

  Dean followed her gaze. “Ian is with you?”

  She nodded. “You still can’t see him?”

  “No.”

  She sighed. “I wish you could. He—we both want to thank you. And to tell you—” Her voice broke, but she continued gamely. “To tell you goodbye.”

  Dean had wanted the chance to say goodbye. But his pain at hearing the word was so great, he wondered if he could take this, after all.

  He wasn’t ready to let her go.

  His fingers tightened instinctively around Anna’s hand, as though he would hold her with him through sheer determination. “I—”

  He choked, unable to speak around the lump that had formed in his throat.

  With her free hand, she brushed her fingertips against his cheek in that tender gesture that had already become so sweetly familiar to him.

  “You’re a very special man, Dean Gates,” she whispered, her dark eyes shining in the moonlight. “I can’t imagine that anyone else would have done for us what you’ve done. You risked so much. Few others would have cared enough to have tried. How can we ever thank you?”

  “All I did was keep asking questions until someone finally answered them,” he managed to say evenly enough. “Now everyone will know the truth about you.”

  “And Ian,” she reminded him.

  He glanced at that eerily empty place beside her. He pictured a dark, temperamental young man, and nodded. “Ian, too.”

  “I know you’ll do well with our inn, Dean,” Anna murmured. Again, she gave him that sad-edged smile. “I have a feeling about it.”

  His chest tightened. “Anna—”

  “I think we should go now. It—it will only hurt more if we stay longer.”

  He didn’t release her. “Do you feel... different?” he asked awkwardly. “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “No,” she whispered, looking away. “But we’ve done what we’ve set out to do. As you said, everyone will know the truth about us. We—we don’t belong here. It’s your home now.”

  “I don’t know if I can stay here without you,” he said roughly. “Everywhere I look, every room I enter, I’ll think of you. I’ll watch for you. And I’ll miss you. God, how I’ll miss you!”

  Her fingers flexed convulsively in his grasp. She looked up at him, her lovely face distressed. “You have to stay! You have to take care of our home. You promised me.”

  “Don’t you understand, Anna? I don’t care about any of that now. Only you.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips. “If only I could go with you,” he muttered against her palm.

  She stroked his hair with her free hand. It felt as though a playful breeze had ruffled the heavy strands. “No, Dean,” she said softly. “Don’t say that. You have your whole life ahead of you. Your family, the inn. You should fall in love, have children—”

  “No,” he groaned, interrupting her. The images she evoked with her words—things he hadn’t even known he wanted until then—were too painful to even contemplate. There would be no other woman. No children. Not for him.

  Not without Anna.

  He looked at her, making no effort to hide his raw emotions. “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

  “Dean,” she said brokenly. “Don’t. I—Ican’t—”

  He kissed her palm, her fingertips. Her lips.

  “I love you,” he said again. “God, how I wish—” He couldn’t finish.

  She seemed to understand. “So do I,” she said, her icy cheek pressed to his. “Oh, Dean, I would give anything to stay here with you. But not like this. Not—not existing in different worlds. It isn’t fair to you. To either of us.”

  He lifted his head, wondering if she was saying what it sounded like. “You would stay, if you could? Here, with me? Even—” He took a quick, deep breath, groping for a way to define the depth of her sincerity. “Even if it meant leaving your brother?”

  Her eyes glittered brightly, as though filled with unseen tears. She didn’t look at that space beside her, didn’t take her gaze from Dean.

  “Yes, God help me,” she whispered. “Even if that was the choice I had to make. As much as I love Ian, I would stay with you. But—”

  “Tell me,” he ordered her, desperately needing to hear the words, if only just this once. “Tell me what you feel.”

  “I love you,” she said, her voice clear, certain. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved before. I never knew love could be like this. It’s just the way my mother told me it would be.”

  Swallowing hard, Dean rested his forehead against hers. “You
r mother got her wish, after all. You found true love.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking. “Yes. If only—I wish—”

  He drew her closer, ignoring the twinge of protest from his injured arm.

  Her cheek pressed hard against his. Her fingers entwined tightly with his own. Their heartache was an almost palpable force surrounding them, binding them together.

  Dean had never understood that love could be this glorious. Or that it could hurt so very badly.

  12

  Over the mountains and over the waves,

  Under the fountains and under the graves...

  Love will find out the way.

  —Anonymous

  IT HAPPENED so quietly, so subtly that at first Dean didn’t realize that anything had changed. And then he felt it. A strange, pulsing warmth. It seemed to begin in Anna’s fingertips. Slowly—so very slowly, it spread.

  Still holding her hand, he lifted his head to look at her. Wide-eyed, she stared up at him, his own questions reflected in her stunned expression.

  Her hand grew warmer. Softer.

  It was as if the unseen barrier between them was being slowly peeled away.

  Her hand no longer felt as though it were made of marble. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t lifeless.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Dean released her fingers to lift his hand to her face. Cupping her cheek in his palm, he brushed his thumb against her lower lip.

  Her skin felt flushed, heated. Her lips soft. Tremulous. Damp.

  He felt warm breath against his flesh.

  He was dizzy. So scared, so hopeful, he was shaking like a leaf.

  Very slowly, he lowered his fingertips to her throat.

  And felt the pulse beating there, rapid, but steady.

  “Dean?” she whispered, and even her voice had changed. She sounded so dose. So startled.

  So very real.

  She drew back from him and looked down at herself. He followed her gaze. Her white dress was dirty at the hem. He’d never seen dirt on it before. Beneath the lace-trimmed bodice, her small, perfect breasts rose and fell.

  Breathing.

  “Anna.” He whispered her name, still afraid to accept what seemed to be happening. Knowing it would kill him if he allowed himself to believe, only to find out he’d been mistaken.

  She spread her hands in confusion, still looking downward. “I feel—Dean, I’m—”

  Impatiently, she shook her head. Her dark hair ruffled against her cheek with the movement. A stray breeze caught a loose strand, tossing it into her eyes. She reached up to brush it back, her movements rather awkward.

  “I don’t know what has happened,” she said, looking at him with eyes that shone now with hope, with the anticipation of joy. “But I think—oh. Dean, I think I’m alive. Really alive.”

  “Anna!” Unable to hold back any longer, he pulled his injured arm from its supportive sling and reached for her. If there was pain, he ignored it. All he felt was the warmth and softness of her slender body, held tightly against his chest.

  Her arms went around his neck. Her mouth locked with his. The kiss was hard. Hot. Shattering.

  She broke it off with a gasping sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. “I can feel you,” she cried, pressing more closely against him. “You’re strong and you’re solid and so very, very warm. You feel wonderful!”

  “So do you,” he managed to say, his hands running feverishly over her.

  Every inch of her felt real. Perfect. Alive.

  Alive! The word reverberated in his head. He didn’t know how, but he knew—somehow he knew without doubt—that it was true. Anna was alive. And in his arms. And he was never letting her go.

  “I love you,” he said, kissing her roughly, repeatedly. “I love you.”

  She returned kiss for kiss, as eager and hungry as he. “I love you,” she said whenever he gave her a chance to speak. “I love you so much.”

  “Stay with me. Promise you’ll stay with me.”

  “For the rest—” Her voice broke, then steadied. “for the rest of my life,” she vowed. “However long that may be.”

  “I love you.” He murmured the words against her lips, then smothered her reply with his kiss.

  It was a long time before Anna drew back. “Ian,” she said on a gasp. “I almost—”

  Pulling out of Dean’s arms, she whirled. “Ian!” she said, apparently seeing something—someone—Dean did not. “Isn’t it wonderful? Aren’t you—Ian?”

  Dean watched Anna closely. She took a step away from him, toward the brother that only she could see.

  Her expression was suddenly anguished. “Ian, you aren’t—Ian, no!”

  She launched herself forward. Dean caught her in his good arm when she would have stumbled.

  She clung to him, limp, dazed, still gazing longingly at that empty spot.

  “Please. Don’t go,” she whispered to her brother. “Stay with me. With us. Please. Stay—”

  A faint whisper of sound lifted the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. He sensed, more than heard, the words.

  “... love you, Anna. Be happy.”

  “Ian,” Anna said, sobbing, sagging against Dean’s side. “Oh, Ian.”

  Holding her, Dean strained to see, but there was only darkness. Silence. “Is he—”

  “He’s gone,” she whispered. “He just... faded away from me. I—I can’t see him now. I can’t... hear him.”

  Dean held her close as she wept. Her tears were hot and wet against his throat.

  This, too, was a part of being alive, he musedly poignantly. Joy, grief, passion, heartache, laughter and pain. It was only love that made it all worthwhile.

  Anna didn’t cry long. Dean didn’t think she was the type who would shed tears often. Taking a deep, ragged breath, she drew back and wiped her face with the back of one hand.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “Maybe it was meant to be this way. His name has been cleared and I—I’ve found you.”

  She touched Dean’s cheek with her wet, warm fingers.

  He caught her hand in his. “Regrets?” he asked.

  “I’ll miss Ian,” she murmured. “I’ll always miss him. It’s as if—as if a part of me has been torn away. But... no. I have no regrets, Dean. I love you. If I had to make the choice again—” She swallowed, then finished in a whisper. “It would still be you.”

  He drew her close and kissed her, trying to soothe her sorrow with his love.

  After a moment, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. And he knew she would be all right.

  Mary Anna Cameron was meant to savor every moment of life. Through her, Dean would learn to savor it, too.

  IT WAS VERY LATE when Dean and Anna slipped into the inn, hand in hand. The others had gone to bed, probably still presuming Dean needed time alone.

  Both almost giddy with emotion, Dean and Anna closed themselves in his room, trying to be quiet. They didn’t turn on the overhead light; the soft illumination from the bedside lamp was enough for them then.

  “How will we ever explain who I am?” she asked, turning to him in question.

  “We’ll think of something,” he assured her, reaching for her. “Later.”

  She slid her arms around his neck. Her hand lingered at the thick bandages protecting his stitches. “Your arm,” she murmured, pressing a kiss on his neck, just above the injury. “You mustn’t strain it. You’ll pull the stitches out.”

  She felt so good in his arms. So slim and supple and sweet. “I don’t care,” he murmured, his mouth hovering over hers.

  “Well, I do,” she said firmly. “It’s my job now to take care of you. Starting tonight.”

  He laughed softly. “You’re living in the nineties now, Anna. Women don’t ‘take care’ of their men the way they used to.”

  She frowned. “People still fall in love in the nineties, do they not?”

  “I assume that they do. Some of them, anyway.”

  “Then they should take c
are of each other,” she pronounced. “That’s what love is all about.”

  He figured they would have plenty of time to discuss the changing roles of women in the late twentieth century. He would make time for long, leisurely walks, for philosophical discussions, for anything important to her.

  Perhaps he’d neglected his first wife, put his work and everything else ahead of her in his life. He would never do that with Anna.

  He had come so close to losing her forever. He would never take her for granted, no matter how busy he became with his—with their—inn.

  “I love you, Anna,” he said evenly, holding her gaze with his own.

  Her face softened. She lifted a hand to his cheek. “I love you, Dean. With all my heart.”

  He threaded the fingers of his left hand through her dark hair. It was soft and thick, and it curled around his fingers.

  Her eyelashes curled, too, he noticed, long and lush and naturally dark. There were three freckles across the bridge of her small, perfect nose. She had a dimple at the left corner of her full mouth.

  He would never grow tired of studying her, learning every centimeter of her. Beginning tonight.

  “Anna,” he murmured, brushing his lips across hers. “I want you.”

  Her cheeks darkened with a flush. He touched them, relishing the faint heat. “I want you, too,” she said steadily, holding his gaze with hers.

  He would have liked to sweep her into his arms and carry her to his bed. Considering that he’d probably bust a dozen stitches and bleed all over her if he did, he’d better wait until a better time for that particular romantic gesture, he decided wryly. Instead, he took her hand in his good one and led her to the mattress.

  He ran his finger across the high neckline of her white dress, noting the delicacy of the fabric, the fragile daintiness of the lace. He’d seen dresses like this in vintage shops, and knew it would be worth a great deal to a collector. But all he cared about now was getting it out of the way. “How does this unfasten?”

  She smiled. “I hardly remember.”

  He kissed her nose, her cheek, the dimple at the left corner of her mouth. “Think hard,” he suggested, his voice growing rough.