BARBARA DELINSKY
Within Reach
Contents
ONE
One minute there was nothing but a cloud…
TWO
Several days later, danica sat on the edge…
THREE
Danica made the trip to Kennebunkport in…
FOUR
Blake was with danica the next time she…
FIVE
Danica chose her time well, waiting for a…
SIX
Danica gave Blake the good word shortly…
SEVEN
Danica’s fears lurked strongly in her…
EIGHT
The next few months were difficult ones…
NINE
The day after Jason Claveling was inaugurated…
TEN
Since she was transporting a word…
ELEVEN
Early the next morning Michael raced…
TWELVE
The weekend after danica returned to Boston…
THIRTEEN
Eleanor recovered slowly but steadily.
FOURTEEN
“He won’t do it, Michael. I asked him…
FIFTEEN
“He calls himself Red Robin and we have…
SIXTEEN
After bidding an affectionate farewell to…
SEVENTEEN
Blake was arraigned the following morning…
EIGHTEEN
“What happened?”
NINETEEN
Two days later the trial began. Michael…
TWENTY
One minute there was nothing but a cloud…
EPILOGUE
Blake Lindsay served as secretary of commerce…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE
BOOKS BY BARBARA DELINSKY
COVER
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
one
oNE MINUTE THERE WAS NOTHING BUT A CLOUD of fog before him; the next she was there, materialized from the mist. Stunned, Michael Buchanan came to an abrupt halt. He hadn’t expected to encounter anyone on the beach at such an inhospitable time of year, much less as striking a figure as the one before him.
She was a vision of loneliness standing there, with the March wind tucking her long skirt around her legs, whipping strands of hair across her cheeks. As he watched, she pressed her pocketed hands closer to her body, enveloping herself more snugly within the oversized jacket she wore.
He took several steps forward and, still unnoticed, stared. She was lovely. Smooth of skin and with a delicately sculpted profile, she was young enough, old enough, just right. And she was slender. Even the protective folds of her clothing, whose mist-softened hues of hunter green and plum contrasted smartly with her fair skin and the sandy hair that escaped the confines of her stylish wool cloche, couldn’t hide that fact.
In her solitariness she was regal; at least that was what he fantasized as he stood, spellbound, studying her. She bore the weight of the world on her shoulders, while at the same time she remained apart, isolated from the masses. Even the fog kept its distance, as though in awe.
Regal…stoic…brave…each thought came to him through the mist, then another. Vulnerable. Body braced against the cold, she shivered from time to time, but she didn’t move either to seek warmth or to escape the threat of the pounding surf. She’d fallen victim to the sea, he knew, and he felt an even greater affinity for her. He wondered who she was, this woman who stood alone, tall yet humbled, seeking strength from within. Bidden by a curiosity that went beyond the purely male, he tugged his collar higher and started slowly forward.
Eyes downcast, she didn’t see him at first. He paused, hesitant to intrude on whatever thoughts possessed her, but moved on again when his own need nagged. When he came to a halt several feet from her, her head snapped up. With a quick step back, she pressed a hand to her heart.
“You startled me!” Her voice was little more than a ragged whisper above the thunder of the tide.
Michael drew in a sharp breath when he found himself looking into the most stunning violet eyes he had ever seen. It took him a minute to find his tongue.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that you looked so alone.”
For an instant he thought she was going to cry. Her eyes widened and tears gathered on her lower lids. He saw it then, the haunted cast that fear had momentarily overshadowed, and he wondered what dark thoughts had upset her so. Then they were gone—the torment, the tears—replaced by a composure that suggested he had simply imagined the cracks.
“My fault,” she said in a voice whose tremor might well have been caused by wind. “I was miles away.” She gave him a sheepish half-smile by way of apology, and he felt something new and special curl up and glow inside him.
“I hope it was somewhere exotic.”
“Exotic? No. Not exactly.”
“Exciting, at least?”
She searched his face, then shook her head quickly, almost as if in guilt at her admission.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” he teased on a note of conspiracy that ended in a smile, “as long as you’re back here now.”
“I am.” Her whisper was carried away by the wind, but she continued to stare at him. When she finally spoke again, she sounded confused. “I’m not even sure what happened. One minute I was here, and then…”
“The ocean has a way of doing that. Of transporting you from one place to another.” Tucking his hands in his pockets, he tore his eyes from hers and gazed toward the waves. “It’s very sneaky, actually. First you’re lured by the sense of freedom of the open beach and the fresh salt air. Before long—you barely know it’s happened—your pulse has adjusted to the rhythm of the surf.” He looked down at her and was so taken with her rapt expression that his voice thickened. “Some people call it hypnotic, like staring into a flickering fire.” He cleared his throat. “I think it’s something more. In no time you’re caught, laid open, exposed. Nature here is raw and utterly truthful and commands no less from those of us who dare intrude.” His voice lowered as he studied the delicate features before him. “Falling victim to the sea means baring one’s soul. It can be painful.”
For a minute they simply looked at one another. “I’d never thought of it that way,” she said at last.
“Neither had I, until it had happened too many times to ignore.”
“You’ve felt the pain?” she asked in a small, surprised voice.
“Many times. Shouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. You look so strong.”
Dropping his head back, he took a deep breath. “I like to think I am, but that doesn’t mean I never suffer. I think strength comes from facing pain, from dealing with it. It’s either that or crumble. Pain is part and parcel of being human.”
Her expression grew all the more solemn, her voice soft in a wistful way. “I sometimes wonder. It seems…it seems…” When her gaze flicked to his then darted away, he coaxed her gently.
“Go on.”
She hesitated for a moment longer, and there was a note of despair in her voice when she spoke. “It seems that some people are immune to it.”
“Immune to pain? No,” he mused, “I doubt that. There are those who choose to deny it. They’re the ones who’d never be caught dead alone with themselves in a room, much less on a deserted expanse of beach.” He winked. “It takes a pretty brave person to expose himself this way.”
She gave a lopsided smile. “Either that or a dumb one.” Then she eyed him cautiously. “Tell me. After this…this baring of the soul takes place, what happens?”
“You go home and cry.”
“I’m serious. Does the sea provide answers?”
“S
ometimes. Once I stood here in my agony and this little bottle floated ashore with a message inside—” He was interrupted by the audible breath she took. When she simply held it without speaking, though, he prodded. “What’s wrong?”
She exhaled slowly. “Your name. I want to scold, but I don’t know your name.” Then she murmured more to herself than to him, “Isn’t that odd?”
Michael understood. There was a warm familiarity about this woman. If he believed in reincarnation, he might have suspected he had known her in another life. Grateful, if that had indeed been the case, that he’d been given a second chance, he held out his hand. “Michael Buchanan.” Without breaking eye contact, he tossed his head back in the direction from which he’d come. “I live down the beach.” He raised a brow. “And you?”
She hesitated for just a minute before carefully putting her hand in his. “Danica. Danica Lindsay.” As he’d done, she flicked her head, but in the opposite direction. “That’s my house.”
Instinctively he raised his free hand to seal hers between his palms. When her downward glance drew his attention to the move, he was as surprised as she.
“Your fingers are cold,” he explained. Though his answer had been an impromptu one, it was apt. He rubbed her hand between his, back and forth, stimulating her circulation and his own. Her fingers were slender, pliant, fitting.
She actually blushed. “I didn’t expect it’d still be winter here. It’s much milder at home.”
“Home?”
“Boston.”
“Ah, Boston,” he drawled, “the birthplace of liberty.”
“So they say.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
She merely shrugged and looked out at the water as she slid her hand from his grasp and tucked it back into her pocket. He’d been right about the ocean, she decided. It had seen through her facade, making her look at things she would rather have ignored. And, yes, he had been right about something else; some people simply refused to acknowledge the presence of pain, which was why she was here, alone, today. Was she free? Only in the most literal of senses.
“Liberty is relative, I suppose,” she commented. But before Michael had a chance to pursue the matter, she tipped up her chin and put on a pert smile. “So. You’re a neighbor. Mrs. Sylvester warned me there were some pretty important people up here.”
She studied the man before her. He wore a sheep-skin jacket, well-worn cords and hiking boots whose laces were undone. He was tall—she guessed him to be a good six-three to her own respectable five-eight—and sported the faint shadow of a beard, which might have given him a roguish look had it not been for the extreme gentleness of his features. Then, too, there was the healthy rumple of his hair, which was a shade of blond not unlike her own. Dirty blond, they always called it, which had never failed to annoy her as a child, since she washed her hair every night.
“You don’t look important,” she teased.
His lips twitched. “How is an important man supposed to look?”
“Oh, he wears a three-piece suit and wing-tipped shoes—”
“On the beach?”
“No. Okay. Make that flannel slacks, a designer sweater and loafers, perhaps with a cashmere topcoat in this kind of weather. He’s fresh-shaven all the time—” she drew out her words in mockery “—and his hair is perfectly groomed.”
“In this wind? He must use hair spray.”
She smiled. “He’s been known to.”
“Sorry, I don’t fit that mold, but, then,” he chided, “you knew that all along. Does that mean I’m a nobody?”
“Oh, no. It means you’re very refreshing and, in that sense, very definitely a somebody.” She had never spoken truer words. At the moment she’d had it with three-piece suits, wing-tipped shoes, flannel, cashmere and hair spray.
“Ahhhh. That’s a relief.” Then he thought. “Were you talking about Mrs. Sylvester, as in Judy, the realtor?” When Danica nodded, his pleasure grew. “I assumed you were visiting the Duncans. You mean to say they’ve sold?” Again she nodded. “And you’ve bought their house?” Another nod. “That’s great!”
“I’m not so sure right about now,” she grumbled. “There’ve been workmen all over the place for a month. I’m beginning to think they’ll never finish.”
“Tell me about it,” Michael mused, remembering all too well the work he had done over the years. “New roof, new heating system, thermapanes—”
“Not to mention a total overhaul of the plumbing system.” She sighed, but there was a whimsical expression on her face. She had enjoyed seeing each piece of work done. It had given her something to think on, something to wish on. “And that was before we even discussed decorating. But I do adore the house. It’ll be fantastic when it’s done.” Her eyes scanned the oceanscape as it grew more visible with the slow lifting of the fog. “With a view like this, how can you miss?”
“It’s addictive, isn’t it?”
“Mmmm.” She tugged her jacket closer, aware of being cold but having no desire to return just yet to the house. Strange, the last thing she would have thought she wanted a little while ago was company, but Michael Buchanan was nice. “How long have you owned your house?”
“Nearly ten years.”
She arched a brow. “Not bad.”
“More the rule than the exception. Kennebunkport has a loyal following. Even the summer swell is largely made up of people making return visits.”
Danica thought about that for a minute. It was in keeping with what the realtor had said about the population being stable. “Judy told me this was a quiet area, that people keep to themselves pretty much. That must be why you didn’t know about the Duncans moving.”
“Actually, I’ve been away.”
She grimaced. “That was stupid of me. You probably have another place.”
“No. This is my one and only. But I’ve been gone since November and just got back last week. I was never that close to the Duncans. We moved in different circles.” The fact was that the Duncans barely tolerated the presence of a Buchanan nearby, but Michael wasn’t about to tell that to Danica. He didn’t yet know who she was. Her name hadn’t rung a bell, but she obviously came from class, and he knew how much she had to have paid for her house. He prayed that her family had somehow managed to steer clear of his. Powerful people—important, to use her word—were natural media targets, and his family was very definitely the media. “I knew they’d sell sooner or later. I guess I thought it would be later.”
“Fortunately not.” Danica had considered it a stroke of luck that there had been a house such as this on the market for her to see. She’d also thought it to be a harbinger of good things to come. Once the house was done, it would be a “gem,” to quote her decorator. The word she preferred to use was savior, but that remained to be seen.
She jumped when warm fingers brushed a strand of hair from her mouth, and her eyes flew to Michael’s.
“Your cheeks are getting windburned,” he explained, wishing he’d had an excuse to linger at her lips. He tried to decide what he saw in her eyes, but he wasn’t sure if what he wanted to think was yearning was in fact nothing but surprise. Her eyes were rounded, her lashes long and dark. They were the only tip-off he had that she wore makeup, so skillfully and subtly was it applied.
His attention was drawn again to her mouth. Almost simultaneously she looked away, and he grew anxious. She was withdrawing. But he couldn’t let her go so quickly, not when he’d finally found her. He tucked his hands in his pockets for safekeeping. “It’s pretty cold out here. How about a warm drink at my place?”
Hot chocolate, like his eyes, she thought to herself. He was a very attractive man.
She shook her head a little too quickly. “Thanks, but I’d better not. I’m heading home in a couple of hours and I have to check on a few more things before I leave.”
“When will you be back?”
“Next month.”
“Not till then?” he asked with such boyis
h dismay that she laughed. It was lovely to feel wanted. Lovely and new.
“’Fraid not.”
“What’s so important for you to do in Boston?”
“Oh—” she rolled her eyes “—this and that.”
“Do you work?”
“Not in the traditional sense.”
“Then, in what sense?”
Danica thought for a minute, wondering exactly what it was she did or, more precisely, how to explain it to a man she wanted to impress. It struck her as incredible that she had never faced such a task before, but she had always lived and breathed in exclusive circles. Anonymity was something she had never known. She was rather enjoying it now, even in spite of the urge she had to lie and say that she was a pediatrician or something equally as impressive.
But Michael was expecting the truth. He seemed like that kind of person, different from so many of the people she knew. He made eye contact; that said a lot.
“What do I do?” she finally repeated, then echoed herself, with one strategic change. “What do you do?”
He indulged her with a gentle smile. “I’m a writer.”
Within Reach Page 1