Текст книги "Pocketful of Sand"

Автор книги: M. Leighton

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

FOURTEEN

Eden

WHEN IT STARTED snowing this morning, I was braced for a foot of snow that would preclude us being able to dig out until spring.  That’s the kind of thing I’d heard about Maine, but so far, that doesn’t seem very accurate.  The big, fat, beautiful flakes have been falling all day, but the roads are still clear and it appears that life is going on as usual in Miller’s Pond.

I woke Emmy up early so we could take the car to Bailey’s and get some shut-in supplies–food, matches, some candles, two more blankets and a variety of fun-yet-not-necessary things like marshmallows and a board game. Now, I feel like all that was a bit premature.  It seems that this snow is going to peter out before it can bombard us with two-foot snowdrifts that trap us inside.

“Can we go to the beach today, Momma?  And then have hot chocolate when we come back? With extra marshmallows?”

“It’s too cold, Emmy.  You’ll–”

“Pleeease!  I’ll bundle up. I promise.  I wanna build a snowman on the beach!”

“There’s not enough snow yet to build a good snowman, sweetpea.”

“Then a little snowman. Pleeease!”

I bought her a snowsuit and boots when I sent the lease back to Jason. Living up north, I knew the lure of building a snowman would be too much for Emmy to resist without driving me completely insane.

“Thermals first. Two pairs of socks and–”  She’s racing toward her bedroom before I can even finish.  “And a toboggan, young lady!” I yell so she can hear me above her excited thumping and bumping.

Ten minutes later, she runs, albeit slower, back out into the living room, looking like the Michelin Man’s firstborn.  All I can see is her eyes, nose and mouth.  Everything else is covered.

She stops in front of me for inspection, her emerald eyes flashing brightly from the flushed oval of her face.  I peek into the neck of her jacket to make sure the thermals are there, which they are.  Then I pull down one sock to make sure another elastic band is hiding underneath, which it is.

“Good girl,” I tell her with a pat to her padded butt.  “Let me get my boots and jacket.”

She’s all but dancing from foot to foot by the time I get her feet in boots and then get my coat and boots on.  We strike out across the street and down toward the beach.  When we pass the cabin I know now to be Cole’s, a little chill races down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature or the falling snow.  It’s a beautiful place, really. Not too big, but nicely appointed.  The logs are dark brown and the front is mostly stone except for the six tall windows that surround the front door. There’s a big wraparound porch with rockers on one side of it and a swing on the other.  It looks like there are blue cushions on them, but all the seats are now piled with a few inches of puffy, white snow.

I see the smoke curling from the stone chimney as we walk by. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s home, but I wonder if he’s in there, if he’s curled up in front of the fire. I wonder if he thinks about our kiss as often as I do, if he ever looks for me when he’s working across the street.  I wonder all kinds of things, things I have no way of knowing. I have no way of knowing because I haven’t seen Cole since the day he told me to get out of his head.

“Come on, Mom,” Emmy calls loudly.  By the look on her face, she’s getting irritated because I’m not moving as quickly as she’d like.

“Look at you, in such a hurry.  Bet I can beat you there,” I tell her, starting to trot toward her.  With a squeal, she turns and takes off down the sidewalk like a puffy pink streak.  She giggles and runs the rest of the short distance to the snow-covered beach.

I stop for a second to admire the beauty.  The beach looks as though it’s been misted with white confetti and fluffy balls of cotton.  The pristine blanket melts away where sea meets sand, the surf lapping away at the frosty treat.  Beyond that, the ocean spreads out like a blue field under the ominous sky, snowflakes falling to the roiling surface and then disappearing as if by magic.  It’s quiet and pure and peaceful. I think to myself that it’s breathtaking, but I quickly realize that it’s not nearly as breathtaking as the man I see huddled on the beach a short distance ahead.

Building a sandcastle.

My heart aches even as it soars at seeing him.  The pain he must feel…to be here, on yet another Sunday, in the freezing cold, building his sandcastle.

I know it’s Cole.  Little of him other than his fiery-red bare hands is visible behind the cold-weather gear, but I know it’s him. I can feel it. I can feel the grief rolling off him in waves bigger than the ocean that serves as his backdrop.

I know his loss is something I can’t even fathom, but I am more curious than ever as to why he so regularly, so dogmatically erects these castles.  Rain or shine, warm or cold, it seems he makes his monument no matter what.

Before I can stop her, Emmy is darting off down the beach toward him.  He’s not as far away this time, so she reaches him before I can stop her.

His back is to us again, so he doesn’t see her standing behind him. He probably didn’t hear her either, the crashing waves coupled with the howling wind nearly deafening.  I approach her and take her hand, holding my finger to my lips when she looks up at me. Not that she would say anything, but I want her to know that I’m being quiet, too.  I feel like our presence encroaches on something deeply personal and intensely special, and I don’t want to intrude upon that.

The castle appears to be complete. It has six spires and turrets again, a hillside full of snowy trees and a mote protecting it all.  There must’ve been some debris that had washed up because this one even has a drawbridge.  I can’t imagine what time he must’ve come out here to finish it by lunch.

Before I can turn away, I see Cole stand.  I stop, not wanting to be rude, but he still doesn’t see us.  With Emmy’s hand in mine, we start to back away. That’s when I see Cole bend down and swipe up a handful of sand.  He stares at it for a few seconds and then gently dumps the granules into his pants pocket, patting it afterward. Almost as though he’s reassuring himself that it’s there.

Part of me wants to scramble away. I feel as though I’m witnessing something that no one should witness, something that is so private that seeing it steals away the soul of it.  But another part of me can’t move.  I’m so utterly broken for him, I feel like I lost something as well.  I want nothing more than to go to him and wrap my arms around his big, strong shoulders and take some of the load from them.  I know without knowing that they bear too much.

Before I can decide whether to run or stay, Cole turns and catches sight of Emmy’s pink suit.  He goes completely still, looking at her as though he’s seen a ghost rather than the little girl he’s seen several times before.  His face is as pale as the snow around him under his two-day scruff and wind-kissed cheeks.

I mouth the words I’m sorry and I scoop Emmy up into my arms and go back the way we came. I carry her past the place where we entered the beach and we play there for nearly two hours. I don’t see Cole again.  Even though I look for him almost as often as I breathe.

⌘⌘⌘⌘

Emmy and I are debating what to have for supper–she wants Spaghettios and I want her to have something healthy–when the knock sounds at the door.  The wings of a thousand butterflies beat the walls of my stomach when I think about what happened the last time there was a knock at the door.  I can almost taste the minty sweetness of Cole’s tongue in my mouth.  Heat and want and anticipation pour through me, and my hands shake all the way to the door.

I don’t look out the glass; I simply make an assumption.

And it’s the wrong one.

Jason is smiling down at me when I open the door.  I have to work hard to keep the disappointment from showing on my face or registering in my voice.

“Jason! What brings you out in this weather?”

He holds up a white paper bag that looks heavy.  “I brought soup. Thought you might like a little chowder for dinner.  It’s perfect on a snowy night.”

Shit.

I plaster on a smile.  “Oh, well…how thoughtful. Thank you.”  I start to take the bag from him, but he holds it aloft.

“Let me fix it.  You have to layer it with crackers juuust right or it ruins the flavor.”

Soup that has to be layered?  Is he really using that as an excuse to come and eat dinner with me?

“Well, uh, Emmy and I were just getting ready to…”  What?  Eat?  Yes, we were.  And now he’s here with food. That’s not a good excuse. And I’m a terrible liar.  So I just give up.  Seems like I’m stuck for the moment.  “We were just deciding on what to eat, so your timing is perfect.  Come in,” I say mildly, standing back so he can enter.

From the back of the couch, her favorite perch, Emmy eyes Jason suspiciously.  Her thumb isn’t in her mouth. Yet.

“Hiya, sweetie,” he says amicably enough. He doesn’t try too hard to get her to talk or to get close to her, which I appreciate. I’d have no choice but to get stern with him–and fast–if he did that.

Jason walks into the kitchen like he’s been here a thousand times.  He slips off his coat and tosses it over a chair at the table and then takes bowls from the cabinet, bowls which have probably been in the same spot for years.  He whistles as he spoons out soup into each bowl, covers it with toppings from the bag, and then more soup on top.  “Gotta let them sit for a few minutes. Why don’t you fix us something to drink?”

“Oh, sorry.”  The whole situation makes me slightly uncomfortable, like being in the kitchen with a boy who’s too touchy.

I squeeze past Jason to reach for glasses.  He doesn’t bother moving to give me room, but rather leans back just enough to brush up against me as I stretch, ribbing me with his elbow.  “This is nice, right?”

I smile, but say nothing, already thinking to myself that I’ll have to curtail this situation, even if it makes him mad. I’d really rather not do that, but…he’s leaving me no choice.

“I have milk or sweet tea.  Or water,” I announce.

“Sweet tea? You are from the south.”  I don’t answer, just keep smiling.  That’s my plan for the night–just keep smiling until this is over. Then I can figure out how to avoid him in the future.  “I’ll have milk.”

I pour each of us a glass of milk and set the table.  He hasn’t said he’s staying to eat and I haven’t asked, but at this point, I think it’s pretty much implied.

Supper passes smoothly for the most part.  Jason is like an oven, only rather than self-cleaning, he’s self-entertaining.  All I have to do is smile and nod and he takes care of the rest. His favorite topic of conversation is anything that involves him.  And he’s well-versed in the subject, his stories flowing endlessly from one accomplishment or anecdote to another.  All centering around himself.

Emmy actually eats most of her soup.  She hardly looks up, but at least she isn’t sucking her thumb.  I see her slide her eyes toward Jason often, though, like she’s making sure he’s not going to reach out and grab her.  Sadly, I feel the same way, almost.  When she finishes eating, she turns her pleading eyes to me and I tip my head toward the living room, silently excusing her from further torture.

I wait for Jason to take a breath before interrupting.  “I hate to cut this short, but I don’t have anything for dessert. I really need to get Emmy ready for bed anyway.”

Jason checks his watch.  “This early?”

“She’s a little girl. She likes to play when she takes a bath.  Not be rushed.”

“Oh, I know how you women are with your baths,” he says, unperturbed.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his insinuation. Like he’s got sooo much experience with the ladies.

I laugh, although for the most part, it lacks any actual humor.  “We sure do.”

“Sure you don’t want me to stay and clean up while you’re tending to her?  I’d be happy to.”

“That’s nice of you, but I’ll take care of it.  Not that much to do anyway.”

“Well, I can at least take my dishes to the sink,” he says, standing.

I put my hand on his forearm.  “Nope. I insist. You brought the food. The least I can do is clean up.”

He grins.  “Oh, so you’re one of those types of women.”

“And what type is that?”

“The type who likes to be equal.  In everything.”

The light in his eyes, the suggestive tone…they send apprehension skittering down my spine.  I clear my throat and slide around the other end of the table toward the door.  “Well, thank you again for the soup. Emmy and I really appreciate it.”

Jason grabs his jacket and throws it over his shoulder. I’m sure it’s meant to be a rakish gesture, but it just creeps me out.  He just creeps me out, actually.

“I’ll come back by to check on you tomorrow. Supposed to drop into the single digits tonight and I notice that you don’t even have a fire going,” he says, tipping his head toward the empty fireplace.

“I wasn’t sure it was functional and I forgot to ask.”

“It’s functional.  Cole keeps the chimney swept.  But you probably don’t even have any wood.  I can bring you some and–”

“Don’t go to any more trouble on my account.  We’ll be fine. I’ll give you a call in a couple of days just to let you know we’re fine.”

If that’s what it takes–the promise of calling him–to get him off my back, I’m happy to do it.

“Okay, okay, Ms. Independent,” he teases.

I open the door for him.  “Thanks again, Jason.”

“It was my pleasure.”  Again, his tone…and the way he emphasizes the word “pleasure”…ack!

I barely wait for him to clear the jamb before I close the door.  I slump against the cool wood, glad that he’s finally gone. My relief is shortlived, however, when I hear the sick raarrr raarrr raarrr of his engine struggling to turn over.  “No, no, no,” I mutter, hoping against hope that he’s not having car trouble.

But when I hear the thud of a slamming door and the clomp of stomping feet, I know I’m not getting my wish.  I’m expecting the knock when I hear it this time. With a sigh, I open the door, plastering another smile on my face.

At least Jason has the good sense to look sheepish.  “My truck won’t start. I’m low on gas. My guess is that the water in it froze.”

“Really?  That quickly?”

He shrugs. “It happens.”  I say nothing. He says nothing. We just stare at each other until finally he asks, “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” I say, biting back my exasperation.  “Do you need to use the phone to call someone?”

“There’s only one tow service in town and they’re probably gone.  And that leaves only Jordan. I hate to get her out after dark, though.”

I grit my teeth.  “I can take you before I put Emmy in the bath tub.”

“No, I’d hate for you to get stuck out in this weather.  It’ll warm up in the morning, if–”

That’s enough to piss me off.  “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here, Jason. I have a child and she needs a quiet, predictable environment.”

“It would just be for one night. I could sleep on the couch.”

Could?  Could?? What the hell else other option did you think I’d entertain?

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to make other arrangements.”

My tone is stern and I’d be willing to bet my expression has lost a lot of its feigned pleasantness.

“Okay, okay. I understand,” he says amiably.  “Can I at least wait inside until Jordan gets here?”

Whether or not he’s trying to make me feel like a douche, I don’t know, but I do.  I’m not that coldhearted.  “Of course you can.”

I tell Emmy to play in her room and I clean up the kitchen as Jason makes calls.  Evidently the towing service really is closed, and he calls Jordan three times, all with no answer.  “She’s probably drunk already,” he says by way of explanation.  He sits with his phone dangling between his knees for a couple of minutes, as though he’s waiting for me to make him an offer.  I’m thinking to myself that hell will have to freeze over first. Finally, he takes up his phone again.  His sigh is dramatic and loud. “I guess I could try Jep. Maybe he can give me a ride.”

Jep answers and agrees to come and get Jason, much to my relief.  “He’ll be here in fifteen.”

My smile is genuine this time.  “Good.”  I don’t add what I’m thinking, which is that he can’t get here soon enough.

FIFTEEN

Eden

THE SNOW STARTS again the next morning.  This one is different. It looks different, feels different.  It’s just…different.  There’s a stillness in the air that reminds me of the calm before a storm.  It doesn’t help that the weatherman keeps talking about the Nor’easter we’ll get if the jet stream dips down and the moisture stays put and blah, blah, blah.  I don’t pay too much attention because Emmy and I are stocked up and ready.  It doesn’t matter to me either way.  As long as Jason gets his truck and doesn’t try to wiggle his way in here again, I’m good.

It’s late in the evening, long past dark, when Jason arrives.  He’s in the passenger seat of the same truck that picked him up the other night.  I should probably go out and speak to him, but I don’t want to. I’d rather pretend I didn’t see. Even though I did.  And only because I was staring at the house across the street, wondering if Cole is there.

I haven’t seen him since the beach, and even though that was only yesterday, I want to see him.  Again.  And again.  It makes no sense, of course, but that doesn’t change the facts.  I think about him so much, think about his life and his past, the way he looks at me and the way it felt when he kissed me. He said that I was in his head. Well, he’s in mine, too.  In my head, under my skin. He’s everywhere.  Even when he’s nowhere.

I smother a growl when I hear a knock at the door.  Emmy looks up from her perch on the back of the couch, her green eyes wary.  She doesn’t like visits from Jason either.

“Who is it, Momma?” she loud whispers.

I put my finger over my lips.  “Jason,” I answer quietly.

“Don’t let him in!”

“I’ll try not to, but I can’t be rude.”

“Yes, you can.”  She grins impishly.

“I can, but I shouldn’t.  Smarty-pants.”

I ruffle her hair as I pass and she smoothes it right back down.  I fix my pleasant expression in place and open the door, but not fully.

“Ms. Independent,” he says, trying to be cute.

“Jason,” I respond mildly.

“Just letting you know I’m here to get the truck. Brought some gas to put in the tank.  I’m pretty sure that’s the problem.”  I say nothing because I’m aggravated. If it’s not the problem then his vehicle is going to be stuck here until he gets someone who knows what the hell they’re doing to come and fix it or pick it up.  “I would’ve come sooner, but I had to wait on Jep to bring me.  Jordan’s over at Cole’s, drinking.  Don’t know how long she’s been over there.  Maybe since yesterday.”

My heart stutters in my chest.  Almost like it stopped completely for a few seconds while I digested his words.  Jordan is at Cole’s?  Drinking?  Together?  Since last night?

I don’t know why, but I wouldn’t have pegged Cole as much of a drinker. Then again, I thought he wasn’t interested in Jordan either.  It appears that I was wrong on both counts.

Sickeningly wrong.

“Oh, uh, okay. Well, I just hope it starts.”

“Me, too. I don’t like being without a vehicle. I can’t bring my favorite girls soup.”  His smile is so presumptuous I want to slap him.  That might be a bit of a drastic overreaction, but I’m not in the mood for his audacity.

“We’re doing fine, but I’m sure you need it to get around.”

“I was thinking that if you and Emmy would like to, I’d–”

“Sorry, Jason, you’ll have to excuse me.”  And I shut the door in his face.

Suddenly, his unwanted attention is just too much.  On top of my rising distress over Cole and Jordan being together, and the swimmy feeling in my stomach, my patience is at an end.

Inexplicably, I feel near tears.  I thought Cole and I had a connection, something real.  Something that was as rare for him as it has been for me.  But if he’s drinking and playing with Jordan, he’s not the man I thought he was.

And the disappointment is crushing.

I didn’t realize I had put so much hope, so much emotion into the brief and innocent run-ins I’ve had with Cole.  I mean, why would I?  Why am I so desperate to get to know him?  Why him?

I’ve gone my whole life without the need–or really the desire–to have a man around. I’ve taken care of myself, taken care of Emmy.  What is it about Cole that has changed all that?  Why, all of a sudden, does it make me so happy to think of Emmy having his hands to help her build sandcastles on the beach?  To hold her when she’s afraid, to comfort her when she has one of her nightmares?  Why now? Why him?

I don’t know. I have no answers.  No way of getting answers either.  I only know that some part of me was hoping, wishing. Wanting.  But it seems I’m better off without hoping, wishing and wanting.

⌘⌘⌘⌘

The house is getting chillier by the hour.  Without Emmy asleep in my arms, I’d be cold.  Colder than usual in here.  I glare at the empty fireplace.  The cottage has oil heat, so I didn’t give the fireplace much thought, knowing that we’d have heat as long as I kept the oil tank out back full. Which it is.  According to the guy who came to check it right after we moved in, there was still twenty-one inches of oil in it.  I guess that’s his non-technical way of checking–measuring the contents with a long dip-stick–rather than doing some complicated math.

It’s almost eleven when I finally carry Emmy to her bed.  I turned on her electric blanket earlier to make sure it was nice and warm for her.  She doesn’t even move when I lay her down and pull the heated covers up over her.  She sleeps like a baby. Most of the time.

I’m going through the cottage, turning off lights, when I hear a knock at the door. It’s loud and heavy, almost thump-like.  My first thought is that it might be Jason. His persistence seems to know no bounds.

I creep to the window beside the door, prepared to peek through one corner to determine who it is before I answer it, when I hear a voice.  It’s deep and familiar, and it sends a tingle of awareness down my spine.

“Eden?”

It’s Cole.

My heart lurches. It’s late.  Something must be wrong.

I wrench open the door to find him leaning against the doorjamb with his head hanging down.  My first thought is that he’s hurt.

“Cole, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

I look him over, using the light coming from my open bedroom door to check for blood on his clothing.  I see none, which only calms me minimally.

“You,” he says quietly.

“Pardon?”

He raises his head and pins me with his potent stare.  “You. You’re what’s wrong.  I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I don’t know what to say to that and he doesn’t give me much time to think before he slides his hands into the hair at my nape, his thumbs holding my face still, and crushes my mouth with his.

I welcome it, welcome him. I’m not even going to deny it. I crave him like I crave sunshine and air and water and love.   His scent, his taste, they weave a sensual spell around me, flooding my blood with heat and need.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his tongue playing alongside mine, promising delights that I’ve never known and never had much interest in.

Until now.

Until Cole.

When he pushes inside, I don’t resist. I’m lost in all that he’s making me feel and my brain is turned completely off.  I hear the slam of the door as he kicks it shut and that’s the last thought to register until I feel his hands at my breast.

My nipples are painful points and I moan into Cole’s mouth when he pinches one between his fingers, rolling it through the material of my lacy bra and single-knit sweater.

“I need to be inside you,” he groans, his other hand falling to my butt and squeezing, pulling my lower body into his. I feel the long, hard ridge of his erection and moisture floods my panties.  “I can’t think. I can’t eat.  I can’t even grieve anymore. It’s all about you. Everything is about you.”

It’s as he speaks that I smell the alcohol. It serves as a bucket of cold water in my face. Apparently Jason was right. He’s been with Jordan. Drinking.

I push at his chest.  “Cole, wait.”

His hands are everywhere, teasing and taunting, awakening feelings I doubted I’d ever feel at the hands of a man.  But I have to ask him about Jordan. I have to know before this can go any further.

“Cole, please.”

“Please what?  Please take off my clothes?” he says in his throaty voice, his hands tugging at the hem of my sweater.  I push them away, but they come right back.  “Please touch me?  Please taste me?  Because I will. I’ll touch you until you can’t think. I’ll taste you until you beg me to let you come.”

Part of me thrills at his words, but part of me needs room, needs time.  Needs him to stop for just a minute.   Another man and another voice is standing between us, touching me in the same ways, but scaring me rather than pleasuring me.

“Cole, stop.  I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk. I want to feel. I need to feel.”

He’s not listening to me and the scent of alcohol seems to be getting stronger and stronger, dredging up memories I’ve tried for years to bury.

“Cole, please,” I plead, pushing at his hands, trying to keep my composure.  My chin is trembling and I feel the icy fingers of panic clutching at my heart.

“’Please.’ I love that word on your lips,” he confesses, still not grasping the hysteria that I’m spiraling toward.

“Cole, stop!  I mean it!”  The more insistent I become, the more it seems to provoke him.  “Cole.”

“Eden,” he whispers, the slight slur to the word taking me back in time.

I have to get away. He has to stop touching me.  I can’t breathe, but it’s not in a good way.

I sink my fingernails into the backs of his hands, dragging them away from me.  “Stop!”  My words ring through the room, shattering the silence that falls between us when he finally lifts his head.  I feel on the verge of a full-on panic now and I can’t hold back the tears.  “Get out of my house!”

He looks stricken, but also confused.  Now I can see the dazed way his eyes stare into mine. He’s drunk. This isn’t the Cole I thought I knew.  The Cole I knew would never do something like this. But maybe I didn’t really know him at all.  Maybe the Cole I thought I knew was nothing more than a product of my imagination.

My breath is coming in big, heavy sobs and I’m shaking.  The fragile wall that I’d built separating my past from my present is eroding, melting away like the grasp I have on my composure.  Memories are colliding with my five senses and suddenly the man in front of me is the same one who still haunts me, who still terrorizes my dreams.

“Eden,” he begins, but I cut him off.

“Get out, Cole.”  When he doesn’t move right away, just stands staring at me, I shout, “Get out!”

I double over, wrapping my arms around my middle in an effort to still my jittering insides.  I see Cole’s snowy boots receding as he backs toward the door.  I don’t move until the cold wind hits my face as he exits.  But then I crumble to my knees and sob until I fall into a dreamless sleep.