by L. A. Fiore
He has just reached the door when he turns his face to me. I know that I’m not the only one fighting the need to make love. “As much as I would love to stay with you, I can’t. I broke your trust. I need to earn it again.”
He isn’t wrong and the fact that he knows this makes my heart thump almost painfully in my chest.
A few minutes later, I hear the door close quietly in his retreat.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Dean asks as I sit across from him in his office. Since Frank died, I have been pushing the idea around about changing my last name to his, since he was my family and I want to honor the man he had been to me. After that phone call from my mom, the decision became that much easier. Changing my name might be unorthodox, but then so are my relationships.
“Yes, Frank meant the world to me and I’d like his name.”
“Okay, I’ll have these drawn up in a few days. If you’d like, I can come to Harrington and take you to lunch and we can go over them.”
On the ride over, I worried that he’d be awkward around me after our kiss, but he is both professional and sweet. Still, I don’t want to give him the wrong idea by accepting a lunch invitation.
His brows are furrowed when he glances up from his notes at my silence. “Friends, Saffron. I’m not asking you on a date.”
The sigh escapes before I can hold it back. “I would really like that. And I’m still trying to figure out what to do with Frank’s money. I want to use it for good¸ just don’t know yet what.”
“Okay. No worries, but before you go, I’ve been meaning to give something to you.”
He moves from around his desk to the closet at the far side of the room and takes out a cardboard box. “This is the last of Frank’s stuff from the nursing home; it was delivered a few weeks ago and I just haven’t gotten around to getting it to you. I’ll take it out to your car.”
There’s a little hitch to my heart at the thought of seeing Frank’s things again. Dean seems to understand I’m a little overwhelmed and follows silently to the car. He doesn’t hide his healthy ogle of Logan’s Porsche. Which I drove, solo.
I pop the trunk for Dean and head to the driver’s side, but before I can reach for the door he’s there opening it for me. “Drive carefully. I’ll call you in a few days to schedule lunch.”
“Thank you. You’ve really been wonderful through all of this.”
“Like I said, he was a friend and I’d like to count you among them as well.”
“I would like that too.”
When the engine roars to life, Dean whistles in appreciation. “Nice.”
“You have no idea.”
Later that afternoon, I’m sitting in my living room going through Frank’s box. Just remembering Frank’s frail hands showing me how the pieces move on the chessboard makes my heart squeeze in my chest. It’s gotten dusty, so I spend a good half an hour washing all the pieces before setting it up on my coffee table.
His baseball cards are in the box as well, stored in a special book, which I place proudly on my bookcase. There are photos that are mostly of Frank and me through the various stages of our relationship, and I spend a good long time studying them and remembering. At the bottom of the box are ten well-worn black leather journals. I flip the cover of one and see the inscription:
For Saffron.
Taking out all the journals, I find they’re all for me. I locate what seems to be the first and start to read. He wrote about us—that first meeting on his front stoop, the time he took me fishing and my line got snagged, yanking me into the water. A smile touches my lips as I continue to read, because I now have my answer about how he acquired his wealth. A fishing lure, the same very lure he had framed in his shop, made him millions. A few entries are dedicated to how proud he was on the day I received my college diploma. Even though he shared these experiences with me, to read in his own hand how he felt on not just the big days, but the little ones too, is precious.
One journal has a different inscription.
Sometimes a memory can be so painful it is impossible to speak it or to relive it, but I want the best part of my present to know the very best part of my past.
I read the first entry.
Her name was Margaret Phillips. I remember the first time I saw her, blond hair tumbling down her back like gold. She was laughing, her brown eyes bright from it and her cheeks rosy. I fell in love at first sight.
I worked with her dad near the docks in Boston, mostly mechanical work, fixing boat engines, cranes. He brought me home one night after a particularly long day and there she was sitting on the front step of their small rundown row house.
We became friends first, and then on our first date, a walk along the street where she lived, she let me kiss her. A light brushing of the lips, and I was sunk. She filled a place in me I never knew I needed filled. She made colors seem brighter, the sound of birds sweeter, life happier.
I could talk about her for days, weeks, years. There are so many memories, so many moments that are permanently etched into my heart, but I’m going to be selfish and keep them just for me.
I asked her to marry me after seeking permission for her hand from her father. Felt it important to include her family, since I had none of my own. She threw herself into my arms in the living room of her home, her joy mingling with my own. The wedding date was planned, her sister and mother had made her dress, her father had arranged for a dinner right on the lane where they lived—a neighborhood wedding.
Remembering her death is too painful. Even nearly seventy years later, the wound is still too fresh. People say you eventually move on, you make peace and find other things to fill the void. I filled the void, or rather, was gifted with the precious company of a young girl who had such fire and spark, she reminded me very much of my Maggie. But I never got over it and I never moved on. How does one do that when the best part of them is gone? For just a time, I had walked in paradise, had found true heaven on earth. That’s not something anyone can get over.
Life is short, my dearest, dearest Saffron, and can be taken so quickly. Live and have no regrets. And if you are ever lucky enough to find the kind of love I shared with Maggie, hold on to it, fight for it, never give it up.
I’m sorry I never shared this while I was alive, but maybe you’ll understand now why I didn’t. I love you, Saffron.
The last words blur through my tears. Shaking from them, I hold the journal to my heart, hoping that somehow Frank will know I understand. The torment in his words, the agony Frank carried because of those memories and the loss of his Maggie, breaks my heart. I reminded him of his Maggie. He saw something in me that reminded him of her. This isn’t just the first entry, it’s the only entry in the journal. Perhaps he wrote in this journal last, or it was intentional: leaving this journal only for Maggie and his beloved memories that were too painful to write down.
Feeling what I do for Logan, I think I understand Frank’s love, at least in some measure. Despite the bumps in the road, Logan is it for me. We may get off track and even hurt one another, but what we have is what Frank had. The idea that he could one day be taken from me terrifies me, especially since we’ve wasted precious time lately for rather silly reasons.
Jumping from my sofa with the journal, I run out of the house, Reaper right behind me. I run nearly the entire two miles to the lighthouse, gasping for breath, but I don’t stop moving, not until I see him. He’s in his studio, his body framed by the window. I don’t call to him; he already sees me, like he knew I was coming.
Maybe it’s the tears or my flushed face, maybe it’s because I arrived with no car and am now panting, forcibly pulling air into my lungs, or maybe it’s just that he wants to hold me, but the door flies open and he comes running out. As he wraps me into his arms, I bury my face in his shoulder and let the tears fall.
He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, just holds me until I pull myself together. Still held tightly against him, I lift my head to his.
“He lost her.”
“Who?”
“Frank. He had . . .” A sob gets caught in my throat. “He loved her and she died. It’s here in his journal.”
Tenderness fills his expression, his hands moving up my body to frame my face, his thumbs gently brushing over my temples. “May I read it?”
“I would really like that.”
Silently he studies me, taking in my features as if he’s etching them into his memory, and seeing the parallel to Frank brings the tears again. He reaches for my hand and leads me inside. Settling on his sofa, he takes the journal from me.
“He wrote it all down, all about me and him, our lives together. It’s better than pictures or videos because it’s his heart pressed on those pages. And then there’s this journal.”
Logan settles my head on his shoulder and kisses me, then he starts to read. His body tenses, his arm around me tightens, his chest moving hard with the emotion stirred by Frank’s words. Suddenly the journal is on the floor and he’s folding himself around me. Splaying his hand over the small of my back, his mouth comes down hard on mine.
Reaching around his neck, I draw him closer and kiss him deeper, running my tongue over his, overwhelmed with the need to melt into him on every level. He yanks his shirt forward over his head. The need to touch is powerful but I don’t, caught in the smoldering yet infinitely more meaningful spell he’s casting on me. His jeans follow his shirt, his hands find my hips and he draws me to him, our bodies molding perfectly together as if we’re a set. His lips claim my shoulder, then my neck, his hands moving down my back to my thighs, lifting my skirt to pull my panties off. Hard muscle and smooth skin meets my touch as I run my hands over him.
Holding me close, he shifts, his body coming to rest on top of mine. Mouths meet, tongues touch and taste. Spreading my legs, seeking the connection to him, my entire body sighs when he slides into me. It’s never been like this. It’s more than sex, it’s like the joining of two halves to make them whole again. Logan starts to move, slowly at first, moving deep only to retreat, practically leaving me before sinking back in, deeper. The tightening in my belly and the chills moving over my skin intensify. Grabbing his ass, I push up as he thrusts deeper. The orgasm starts slowly shooting tingles down my arms and legs before exploding, consuming me with its brilliance.
We lie tangled together, Logan’s light touch over my arm as much arousing as it is soothing. Thoughts of Frank are right there, knowing he had this with someone and lost it. The fact that he could continue to function was a miracle, in my opinion.
“Are you thinking about Frank?”
“I’m thinking about you and how if Frank had what I have with you and lost it . . .”
He holds me closer.
“I want to do something. Something to honor the man Frank was. I’ve been thinking about the house he left me and I had an idea. I really thought of it after you told me about moving here as a child. Students, like you, who come here to study—leaving home and being on your own is hard enough, but being so far from home must be even harder. I would imagine there are even students who choose not to come here because of how much of an adjustment it is, teenagers who need more support than dormitories can offer, at least for the first year. So I was thinking . . . what if I created a different kind of dormitory, a place that was a stepping stone between home and the dorms for those who need that additional support. I could have counselors, trained therapists on staff, to help them through the adjustment period—with the proximity of the house to Manhattan, it’s the perfect location for students studying at any of the NYC colleges and universities.”
“I think Frank was right when he said you would know what to do with the legacy he left you.”
“Could you help me? I haven’t a clue where to start.”
“Without question.”
“Maybe we could start today.” I try to move but Logan rolls and pins me under him. “Not today. I’ve got you in my bed, so to speak, in the middle of the day, and I don’t intend to let you out of it again.”
I see the wisdom in this statement. “That’s a better plan.”
The following morning, I wake but Logan isn’t in bed. After quickly dressing, I search the house and find him on the beach, looking out at the water. Reaper is farther down the beach, chasing his tail. Logan’s wearing faded jeans and a beat-up sweatshirt, his feet are bare, and the breeze coming off the surf blows his inky hair about. His back is to me, but even from my distance, I can tell he’s tense. His shoulders are rigid and he’s clenching his hands into fists. I start toward him and his head whips around, those eyes spearing me from across the beach. He’s pissed; he starts toward me, his long strides eating the distance between us. As he approaches, anger is just radiating off him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Were you planning on telling me about the threats?”
“What?”
He lowers his head so our eyes are level and man, he is spitfire mad. “The calls, the severed bird’s head?”
“I thought you knew. I thought that was why you came to my house that first day.”
“No, I didn’t know. Broderick mentioned it when he stopped by earlier to drop off some supplies for me, mentioned it as if I knew already. You should have told me.”
Broderick had been here? Damn, I really do sleep like a dead person. “Why should it have been me? If you hadn’t run away, you would have been here and known all about it.”
That comment is a direct hit since his face pales. “You’re right.”
I don’t want to fight with him. We’ve done enough of that lately. Touching him, since I need the contact and I suspect he does too, I attempt to soothe him. “Sheriff Dwight is doing his thing, and I am being very careful, but there has been nothing since the package.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either, but there isn’t much I can do about it. So, changing the subject. Can I pick your brain about my idea?”
He doesn’t move from the subject as quickly, but it’s the dark look that accompanies his thinking that sends a lick of warning lighting through me. He links our fingers, squeezing my hand as if to make sure I’m really standing there, and says, “Yes, I’ll make some coffee.”
Coffee turns into lunch and dinner at my house, and boy, did Reaper score with the hamburger Logan grilled up for him, as Logan and I discuss in detail what I want to do. He left me with some websites of places doing similar things.
Throughout the day I find myself pausing my work and just watching him. He’s an incredible artist, but today I saw the businessman, and he’s equally incredible at that.
Logan agrees that we should check out the house, but unlike our New York adventure, this time we’ll catch a plane into LaGuardia and rent a car. Before he leaves, we walk Reaper along the beach, make out like school kids under the stars, and then he waits for me to lock the door before he climbs onto his motorcycle and drives off. He only left five minutes ago and I already miss him.
Turning off the lights, I head into the bedroom where I shower and change into my pajamas. I try to watch some television, but I just can’t get into it, so I shut it off and try for sleep, but it’s only nine o’clock and I’m not having much luck.
I can’t seem to stop my brain from working as my thoughts drift from Logan to Frank. Frank mentioned that Maggie’s mom and sister made her wedding dress. Was it possible that her sister was still alive? I’m surprised at how much I want to have a chance to talk to the sister of the woman Frank had loved and lost. Which leads to another thought. I still have Frank’s ashes. I haven’t figured out where to lay him to rest, but if I could find out where Maggie was buried, I could seek permission to bury Frank with her. Googling Margaret Phillips ends up being fairly pointless, since she died well before the computer age. And if she had lived, she would have most likely felt as Frank did about computers. He didn’t like them nor did he use them: no ads on the Internet, no website or social media page. He
thought it was all nonsense. His cash register was ancient and his phone had a rotary dial. And without any of those online links, search engines don’t have as much to draw from. There has to be a way to learn her sister’s name. Even her death records would probably give me next of kin. I’m not savvy enough on computers to figure it out, but Josh is. Looking at the clock to make sure it isn’t too late, I call him.
“Hey, Saffron, what’s up?”
“Is it possible to search death records online?”
“Well, that’s a bit morbid, isn’t it?”
“Funny. I’m trying to find a woman that Frank knew. It’s a long story and I’d rather you read it in Frank’s words than me tell you, but for now I want to find her, more specifically her sister.”
“Frank’s journals?” His voice softens, laced with understanding and tenderness.
“Yes.”
“Death records are a matter of public record, so you should be able to look them up online, but how long ago are we talking?”
Remembering Frank’s words of missing her even seventy years later, I quickly do the math. “Around 1945, give or take a few years.”
“That may be a problem. Most states are working to get their records online, but it’s very likely that those records are still only hard copy. Where is this?”
“Boston.”
“Um, there’s a chance. Here, take down this URL.”
After I hang up with Josh, I search for Margaret, but the death records only go back as far as 1962. I then search for another Phillips on the off chance her sister never married, but none of them list a Margaret as a sibling. There has got to be a way to find Margaret’s sister, yet my eyes are growing heavy so I shut down my computer, grab a glass of water, and finally, at three in the morning, I fall asleep.
I am informed by Tommy that Logan is looking for me and he is in the community kitchen in Town Hall with George, and I have to say, that is not anywhere I’d ever expect him to be. My late night of amateur sleuthing slows me down getting there because I’m just dragging.