Текст книги "Pocketful of Sand"
Автор книги: M. Leighton
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Pocketful
Of
Sand
A Novel
By
M. Leighton
To my amazing husband, Kevin , who asked me to write this book. I never expected it to creep into my soul the way it has.
This one is for you, babe.
I’d build sandcastles from here to eternity to spend one more day with you.
Pocketful of Sand
“She’s beauty for my ashes. And I’m hope for her heartache.”—Cole Danzer.
I don’t know what makes a great love story. Is it that instant attraction when boy meets girl? The passionate kisses and the fairy-tale ending? Or is it a lifetime of tragedy, paid in advance, for a few stolen moments of pure bliss? The pain and the suffering that, in the end, you can say are worth it for having found the missing piece of your soul?
The answer is: I don’t know. I don’t know what makes a great love story. I only know what makes my love story. I only know that finding Cole when I did, when Emmy and I were running from a nightmare, was the only thing that saved me. That saved us. He was more broken than I was, but somehow we took each other’s shattered pieces and made a whole. If that is what makes a great love story, if that is what makes an epic romance, then mine…ours is the greatest of them all.
First Edition
Copyright 2015, M. Leighton
Cover photo by ArrowStudio
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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ONE
Eden
October
EMMY’S FACE LIGHTS up when she runs full speed toward the water’s edge, chasing the tide out. My heart warms with her squeal of delight as it chases her right back in. Back and forth they go, engaging in the never-ending dance of ebb and flow.
Few times in her six years of life have I ever seen her so happy, so carefree and animated. That alone makes this move worth it. Maybe we won’t have to leave this place. At least not for a while.
Tirelessly, her little legs carry her as she flees the frothy waves, sandy water splashing up from her feet as she runs. I watch her play, more satisfied than I’ve been in a long time. Maybe this will be good for her.
Finally, winded, she doesn’t turn to run the tide, but keeps coming toward me until she can launch her small body at mine like a tiny bullet. I catch her, hugging her close so that I can bury my nose in her neck and inhale the smell of baby powder, fresh air and little girl.
When she pulls away, she’s smiling. “That was fun, Momma. Did you see me run fast? Even the waves couldn’t catch me.”
Her lime green eyes are twinkling and her cheeks are rosy from the fall nip in the air. Her hot breath mixes with the ocean’s breeze to sooth my insides, like maybe happiness, wholeness is finally blowing in.
“I did! You ran so fast I could hardly keep up.”
She claps excitedly. “Can we walk before we go?”
I glance at my watch. We are supposed to meet the landlord at his office at three, but we should be in good shape as long as we head back to the car within the hour. “Sure, but we can’t stay too much longer.”
I’ve barely finished my sentence before she’s out of my arms, on her feet and blazing off down the beach, her long hair flowing out behind her like midnight flames.
This straight stretch of beach is practically deserted, so I let her run as fast as she wants to. There’s a great likelihood that I’ll have to carry her back, but I don’t mind. I treasure any chance I get to hold her close and pretend that nothing in the world could ever take her away from me. Plus, all this exercise means she’ll probably fall asleep in my arms tonight. She’ll be exhausted. I smile at the thought. The perfect end to what’s looking like a nearly perfect day.
Up ahead, Emmy stops several feet from what I now recognize as someone building an elaborate sandcastle. I see her pop her thumb in her mouth, so I speed up. That’s a sure sign of distress for her. That and the way she goes still as a statue, not moving a single muscle. Those are the only outward signs of her condition.
Without looking back, as though she can sense my presence when I stop at her side, she reaches for my fingers with her free hand, squeezing them as tightly as she can.
I squat down, something I’ve learned is soothing to her. When she’s anxious, she likes to be able to hide. While she’ll tuck herself behind my legs if I’m standing, she relaxes more quickly if I’m down on her level where I can hold her.
She surprises me when she doesn’t turn into my chest and bury her face like she usually does in these situations. Instead, she stands perfectly still, watching the man who’s on his hands and knees constructing the castle. His back is to us and I doubt he knows we’re here, he’s so intent on what he’s doing. Obviously he takes his castling seriously, which gives me ample time to study the scene.
The castle is taller than Emmy and has at least a dozen spires and turrets of various sizes. It’s probably taken him all day to construct it. There are even trees in the “castle grounds” that lead down to the edge of the mote he’s currently digging. The whole thing is pretty impressive. But not nearly as impressive as the guy who’s building it, I learn once I turn my attention to him.
His hands are broad and long-fingered, tanned and capable-looking, as though they’re used often and probably calloused. I follow them up muscular forearms roped with thick veins and bands of sinew, to biceps that bulge against the dark blue cotton of his T-shirt. The material is stretched tight across his wide shoulders, too, which only further accentuates his narrow waist.
I evaluate the man in the same clinical way that I do the castle–with an appreciation for form and structure. Nothing more.
That is, until he turns his shaggy blond head to look at me.
I can tell by the frown that creases his forehead and shades his bright blue eyes that we took him by surprise. Normally I would do the polite thing and apologize, but at the moment my thoughts are as scattered and hard to catch as my breath.
He’s handsome, yes. He’s built well, yes. I’m sure in another life or if I were someone else, I’d be very attracted to him. Only I’m not attracted to men. Or women. Not anymore. I’m not attracted to anyone anymore.
So then why can’t I breathe? Why do I feel like I just fell into a black hole that sucked all the air from the world and dropped hot boulders into my stomach?
He rocks back on his haunches, brushing off his hands almost angrily. My insides do a funny little quiver as he watches me. It’s not really fear or embarrassment; it’s more like…awareness. Extreme awareness.
Emmy stirs where she had gone around behind me to peek over my shoulder, and her movement draws his piercing eyes. After that, I think I cease to exist.
As he stares at her, the color leaves his handsome, golden face, taking with it the frown that he was wearing. His mouth drops open a little and I hear the huff of a breath as he releases it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks shocked. I just don’t know why he would be.
He gapes at Emmy for a few long seconds before, wordlessly, he turns away. At first, he does nothing. Doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even appear to breathe. Just continues to kneel, facing away from us, staring at the sandcastle. But then, after a bit, he returns to his mote. He digs into the sand fiercely, almost angrily, and I wonder that his fingers don’t bleed.
I don’t really know whether I should say something or not, so I opt with not. Already he doesn’t seem too thrilled with our presence. Another interruption might be even more poorly received.
Just as I’m rising to sweep Emmy into my arms and carry her back, the man pauses, his head turning as he catches a glimpse of the clump of daisies buried stem-deep in the sand in front of the castle. His shoulders slump visibly. I see his hand start to jut out and then stop, and then start again. He reaches for one flower, plucking it from the bunch and twirling it in his fingers. I know I should leave, leave him to whatever he was doing and thinking before we arrived, but I can’t. Not yet. I can’t, but I just don’t know why.
Finally, he glances back at us, at Emmy. His gaze isn’t too direct, almost as though he knows that too much attention is hard for my daughter. I watch as he extends the flower, his hand shaking the tiniest bit as he holds it out to her. I start to reach for it, but Emmy surprises me by grabbing it herself, her slim little hand easing out to carefully take the daisy from his grasp.
The stranger gives her a small smile and turns away again. He doesn’t get to see the way Emmy’s lips curve around the thumb still stuck in her mouth. He doesn’t get to see the way she watches him afterward.
“Thank you,” I tell him quietly.
He pauses, turning only enough that I can see his strong profile–straight nose, carved mouth, square chin. He nods once and then returns to his excavating, as intent as he was before we interrupted.
Puzzled and flustered, I turn and carry my daughter back the way we came, the scent of fresh-cut daisies teasing my nose and the quiet hum of my child tickling my ear.
TWO
Cole
WHO THE HELL was that? I think, wondering why I feel like I just got sucker punched in the gut. I resist the urge to turn and watch her walk away. Or go after her.
Who the hell was that and what the hell did she just do to me?
THREE
Eden
A CLUSTER OF bells jingles overhead when I push through the door of Bailey’s Quick Stop, which is the address that the landlord gave me when he told me where to pick up the keys to our cottage. A quick glance around shows me the place is empty. I take a tentative step forward, practically dragging Emmy along. She’s hugging my left leg so tightly I can hardly walk.
“Hello?” I call quietly.
“Hiya!”
I jump when a woman with wildly teased brown hair pops up from behind the counter where the cash register sits. She’s smiling broadly and holding a frosted glass in one hand. I’d estimate her to be in her early thirties, maybe ten years older than my twenty-three. With her button nose and big brown eyes, she’s pretty despite the trouble she seems to be having remaining upright.
“Hi, I’m looking for Jason Bailey. Am I at the wrong place? This is the address–”
“No, sweetie, you’re at the right place. Come ooon in,” she says, laughing as she throws up an arm and enthusiastically urges me forward. I hobble toward her, Emmy clinging to my leg as I do. The woman notices her, brown eyes lighting up when she sees my daughter. “And who is this?” she asks in a gentle voice.
I reach down to smooth Emmy’s hair, not at all surprised when I see her sucking her thumb. She’s just staring at the woman like she’s a frightening alien.
“This is Emmy. She’s very shy,” I explain. That’s what I tell everyone. It’s much simpler than the truth.
“All the princesses are,” the woman says, unfazed. “I’m Jordan. What can I help you two lovely ladies with today? We’ve got everything from paint to wine and bait to bread. We’ve got a grill if you’re hungry and a bar if you’re thirsty.”
“Just Jason Bailey please,” I repeat, watching as she tries to collect herself, tugging at her disheveled shirt and smoothing her disheveled hair.
“Oh, right right.” She turns her face partly to the side and yells, “Jasonnn! Get out here,” the smile never leaving her face.
As is the case with most small towns, new people stick out like sore thumbs, and Miller’s Pond, Maine is no exception. It had a population explosion in 2001, bringing the town tally up to a whopping three thousand four hundred people. And, now, three thousand four hundred and two. I guess that’s why this store has a little bit of everything. No big chain supermarkets or stores have found their way here yet. From what I could see on the map, the closest super center is at least thirty miles away.
“So, what brings you to Miller’s Pond?” she asks.
I smile and clear my throat, uncomfortable with her questioning. But I have a carefully composed history rehearsed for just such an occasion. “Uh, I was born up in Bangor. Just getting back closer to home.”
“Close, but not too close, eh? Smart girl.”
I smile at her observation and add, “Plus we love lighthouses and Miller’s Pond has one of the oldest ones in the country, or so I hear.” It’s a pat enough answer, hopefully pat enough to stop her or anyone else from asking more questions. It’s all fiction, of course. 100% untrue, but that’s the way it has to be.
“That’s right, sweetie. You’ve come to the right place. Annnd, you’ve just made friends with the one person who can tell you anything you need to know about this town and the people in it. Besides that, I make a kickass rum and Coke,” she says with a wink, her voice dropping down to a loud whisper. I assume that was in deference to Emmy.
“The village idiot can make a rum and Coke, Jordan,” a man says as he appears in the doorway behind the counter. He looks to be about the same age as Jordan and, based on his light brown hair and same color eyes, I’d say they’re related. “Or, in this case, the town lush.”
Although his words are biting, he smiles at Jordan and she laughs, playfully punching his arm. Her fist slips off and she nearly falls, but the guy grabs her by the shoulders and more or less props her back up. He’s shaking his head when he finally looks up to me.
“Jason Bailey, Jordan’s brother. You must be Eden.”
“I am. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Is that a bit of the south I’m hearing?”
My lips curve nervously. I’ve tried very hard to drop any hint of accent from my voice, so his observation flusters me. I don’t have a lie ready for that. “It is. I wasn’t there long, but it must’ve rubbed off.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied with that.
“And this is her daughter, Emmy. She’s a shy princess,” Jordan provides.
I can’t help noticing the appreciative way Jason’s eyes sweep from my chest to my feet and back again on his way to see Emmy. He simply smiles at her, doesn’t try to engage, which is best. When his warm eyes lock onto mine again, I think to myself that he’s handsome and pretty obviously interested. At least superficially. Only I’m not. A normal woman probably would be. But I’m not normal. I’d like to be, but I’m not sure I ever will be.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both. I look forward to getting to know you.”
While his smile is as polite as his words, something tells me his insinuation is anything but innocent.
I just nod, thinking to myself that he won’t ever get to know me that well. “It’s been a long day for us. If I could just get the keys…”
I figure offering up an excuse for my lack of interest is the best way to avoid bruising his ego, and I’m okay with that. Anything to keep out of trouble.
“Of course. Come on back to my office,” he says, walking to the end of the counter and indicating yet another door. Once inside, I dig in my purse for the form I filled out. It’s a single page, nothing too invasive or complicated. In fact, the…loose requirements for the rental of this cottage were big factors in choosing Miller’s Pond. Jason let me secure the lease via a faxed agreement that didn’t ask for my social security number and he allowed me to pay six months in advance via a cashier’s check that I mailed in. Now I just have to pick up the keys.
Jason grabs an envelope from his top desk drawer. It has Eden Taylor and the cottage’s address scribbled across the front. He opens it and dumps keys out into his hand, makes a few notes on a paper or two and then hands them over.
“You know the address?”
“Yes, we drove by on the way in.”
“Then welcome to Miller’s Pond.”
And just like that, I exhale. Maybe this will finally be a place we can call home. Home safe home.
FOUR
Eden
Thirteen days later
OUR LITTLE COTTAGE is quiet when I get up. I pull Emmy’s door shut on my way to the bathroom. She sleeps like a rock unless she has a nightmare, but I like to keep her cocoon as peaceful as I can until she wakes.
The hardwood floors are chilly under my feet as I pad silently to the stove and grab the hot water kettle. I love our place. For whatever reason, be it the charming wraparound porch or the big oak in the front yard, or the soothing beige walls and cozy old fireplace, this feels like home. Already. And we haven’t even been here two full weeks yet.
I glance up as I pour water into the kettle. My stomach flutters when I see him. He’s there. I hoped he would be.
Every morning since we moved in thirteen days ago, the man we saw building the sandcastle has been working across the street at the cottage diagonal from mine. Rain or shine, he’s there. I don’t know who he is or why he draws me to my window each day, but he does.
I find myself peeking out at him often. More often than I should, probably. But as hokey as it sounds, something about him speaks to me. Calls to me almost. And I can’t shake it.
I mean, he’s a pleasure to watch, of course. And that’s saying a lot coming from someone like me. Physically, he’s all that a woman could ask for–tall, fit, ripped in all the right places. Most days he wears nothing but faded jeans, work boots and a tool belt. Sometimes a baseball hat. Rarely a shirt. And if ever there was a body made to go around shirtless, it’s his. But that’s not what pulls me to the window time after time, day after day. It’s not even the tattoos scrawled up his ribs–the one on the left reading “always”, the one on the right reading “never”. No, there’s something else that brings me here to watch him. Something…more.
I’ve noticed that whether he’s hammering or scraping or carrying something through the door, he has this intense solitude about him. It’s as though the world has abandoned him. Or maybe that he’s abandoned the world. I can’t put my finger on it. I only know that it’s decidedly incongruous with a man who looks like he does.
I think about him being on the beach that day. Building a sandcastle like it was the most important thing in the world. It was strangely haunting for a man who looks like he does to be so…alone.
Maybe that’s what draws me–his isolation. I can’t be sure of course, but something tells me that he doesn’t have much of a life outside his job. He arrives sometime before I get up, which is early, and stays to work late, long after I give Emmy her bath. He eats lunch on the lawn by himself and I’ve never seen him talking on a cell phone or engaging the few people who pass by. He just appears to be alone. All alone.
We’ve fallen into a strange rhythm of sorts. It’s just one small thing, but it seems significant somehow. Every day, at some point, he will catch me watching him. Every day, he has. And every day he holds my gaze, even from so far away. It gives me chills, the way he stares back at me. But then he frowns, just like he did at the beach that day, before he turns away. It’s like I make him think of something he doesn’t want to think about. And my need to know what that is increases with every day that passes. Need, not want.
I’m not sure if brokenness is discernible with nothing more than our casual contact (if you can even call what we have “contact”) or if this is all in my head, but for some reason that’s the word that comes to mind when I see him–brokenness. Someone who’s broken.
From the outside, he’s practically perfect. Well not even practically perfect. He is perfect. Flawless. Breathtaking. But he’s too quiet, too withdrawn, too…solitary for someone as handsome as he is. Maybe that’s why I think he’s broken. Surely in a town this size, every single woman within ten miles would be banging on his front door, offering to help with whatever he might need. Or want.
And yet, he doesn’t seem to have anyone. I’ve noticed that his ring finger is empty, too. As empty as his life appears to be.
Maybe he’s got dark secrets that keep the town at bay. A scary skeleton in his closet, a maniacal monster under his bed. That’s probably reason number one, the only one I should need, to stay far, far away from him. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. Mostly because he stays away from me, never offering to come over or speak when we go outside. He just keeps to himself and I do the same.
But still, he pulls me.
So here I am. Watching. Waiting, it seems. On what, I don’t know. But I often get the feeling that something is about to happen. Only it never does.
A loud banging at my front door startles me and I spill coffee down the front of my shirt. I grab a napkin and wipe at it as I run, rushing to the door before whoever it is can wake up Emmy. She’s a late sleeper. Sometimes I think God made her that way to protect her.
I peek through the square of glass at the top of the plain wood door and find Jordan smiling up at me. She looks surprisingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning, considering how she most likely spent her night.
I snap open the dead bolt and unlock the knob. “Hi, Jordan.”
“Hiya, sweetie,” she says, pushing past me and carrying a brown cardboard box into the living room. From that first morning when I met her, she’s taken to me like her long lost best friend.
She’s never come to my house before, but evidently she’s been inside it at some point prior to my arrival. She plops the box down on the coffee table and then perches on the end of the sofa like we do this every day.
“I always loved this material,” she says, rubbing her hand over the velvety cinnamon-colored upholstery.
“You’ve been here before?”
“A time or two. I dated the guy who lived here before you.”
“Dated?” Jason says from behind me as he walks in carrying another box. “You don’t date.”
“Why the hell don’t I date?”
“You’re like the town bicycle. You give rides. You don’t date.”
“Uh!” Jordan squeaks, insulted. “Are you hearing this?” She seems incensed, but then, just as quickly as she got riled, she waves him off and her smile returns, feathers no longer ruffled. I can’t decide if their mean banter is all teasing or if they have a love/hate relationship. “So, your landlord had some things ordered. Wanted us to bring them over when they arrived.”
“Landlord?” I ask in confusion. “I thought Jason was the landlord.”
“Nah, he’s just a lackey.”
“I’m a property manager, not a lackey,” Jason replies sharply. Then he turns to me. “The owner was going to replace a few things before you moved in, but there was no time. Better late than never, though, right?”
I nod, a little uncomfortable with my space being so abruptly and unexpectedly invaded. “What kinds of things are we talking about?”
“New microwave,” he says, indicating the heavier box he was carrying, “new blinds for the kitchen and a new coffee maker.”
I perk up at the mention of the coffee maker. “That’s nice. I’ve been boiling water every morning.”
“Well, not anymore,” Jason says with a smile.
Jordan gets up and wanders to the kitchen, stopping to stare out the window as I so often do. I wonder if she sees the sandcastle guy. Then I wonder if she knows him.
“Damn,” she says on a sigh. “It’s a shame to cover that view with new blinds,” she says. That’s how I know she sees him. There’s nothing spectacular about the view except him. She turns her big smile back toward me. “Unless that’s why he sent the new blinds.”
“Why who sent the new blinds?”
“The owner,” she answers emphatically. “Cole Danzer. He must’ve noticed they were missing.”
I join her in the kitchen, glancing out to where the gorgeous handyman is measuring a piece of wood.
“How would he know?”
“Well, I guess Cole’s not blind and can see from a hundred feet away,” she declares with a laugh, tipping her head toward the window.
“Wait, so he is the owner?” I ask, admiring the way the muscles in his shoulders shift as he works.
“Yep. Cole Danzer.” There’s a dreamy sigh in her voice that matches her expression.
“Crazy Cole is what we call him,” Jason says as he reaches between us to lay the blinds across the sink.
Jordan gasps. “We?”
“Yes we,” Jason confirms with a frown. “You’re the one who started it.”
“No, I call him Crazy Hot Cole. But you’ve never called him crazy at all.”
“That’s because I work for him.”
“So what, you don’t work for him today?” To this, Jason says nothing, but I can see his nostrils flare. “Ohhh, or is it because you like our lovely little miss Eden? And you don’t want her getting any ideas about the beautiful hunk o’ man across the street?”
“Jordan, just shut up. You don’t even make any sense,” her brother replies petulantly.
When Jason bends slightly to apply himself to removing the blinds from their box, Jordan points down at him and mouths behind his back “He likes you!”
“Jordan, go open the store. Come back for me in an hour,” Jason snaps.
“Fine,” she huffs. “Walk me out, Edie.”
Edie? That’s a new one, I think.
Jordan reaches for my arm and loops hers through it, practically dragging me to the front door. She pulls me out onto the small wraparound porch, but doesn’t stop there. When she keeps walking, I start to resist.
“This is far enough, Jordan. I’m a mess!”
I think about my straight black hair in a ponytail, my oval face and hazel-gray eyes devoid of makeup, my coffee-stained T-shirt and pink shorts that say “Juicy” on the butt. I feel my face heat with embarrassment.
She stops and stares at me. “You’re gorgeous. Now come with me.”
Before I can argue, she tugs me into the yard. Automatically, my eyes find their way to Cole the instant he comes into view. He’s still in the yard, but now he’s moving his ladder.
“Hi, Cole,” Jordan bellows, causing my stomach to drop to my bare toes. The grass is covered in a chilly, early fall dew that coats my feet. I catch my breath when Cole glances up at us, his brow drawing immediately into a frown. He doesn’t respond. He just holds perfectly still, his long fingers curled around the ladder, forearms straining and biceps bulging. “Have you met Eden yet?”
As Jordan drags me across the pseudo-cul-de-sac, I can feel his eyes on me, the startling blue penetrating all the way through my clothes to my skin underneath. Goosebumps break out on my legs and arms and, to my utter humiliation, my nipples pucker. The heat of his gaze and the cool of the morning is too stark a contrast for my body not to notice.
When we stop within a foot of him, I see his hooded eyes rake me from head to toe. My nipples strain against my T-shirt, catching his attention on the way back up. I cross my arms over my chest, praying for this moment to just be over.
He’s silent for a long time. Long enough to be rude, but I don’t get the impression that he is. I get the impression that he’s just thinking. His frown deepens and for a second it appears he’s going to just turn away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he props the ladder against one shoulder and sticks out his hand.
“Cole Danzer.”
His voice. God! It makes me want to groan. It’s like a silk sheet draped over jagged gravel. It belongs in a bedroom. A dark, warm bedroom. Where pleasure and pain peacefully coexist, heightening the senses and curling the toes. It would be sexy in any circumstance, even if he were reading the encyclopedia aloud or explaining an insurance plan.
Reluctantly, I straighten my right arm and slip my hand into his. His palm is calloused, his fingers rough, just like I knew they would be. From the moment I saw them expertly crafting a sandcastle almost two weeks ago, I suspected they’d feel this way. They rasp against my sensitive skin, setting the walls of my stomach into a flurry of rippling activity.
“Eden Taylor,” I reply.
Despite his cool exterior and his less-than-friendly expression, his touch is warm and somehow reassuring, like he could fix or heal or bring back to life whatever he set these hands to.
Which is ridiculous and the first indication that I’m probably losing my mind.
I’m not this girl. I’m not the kind of woman who melts over a man. Any man. But this one does something to me. I get the feeling that, if the circumstances were right, I’d melt for him. Or with him.
He nods once and quickly releases me. I wonder if he felt something, too.
“Jordan,” he says abruptly, nodding once before adjusting his grip on the ladder and resuming his work as if we weren’t standing in the yard.
Jordan, still smiling, takes my arm again and leads me back the way we came, as if that was a perfectly normal greeting from this mysterious man. When we pass ear-shot distance, Jordan saves me the trouble of having to bring up Cole.
