Call My Name (26 page)

*   *   *

Much, much later, as they lay unclothed beside each other in Drew’s large bed, Daran softly questioned him. “Why ever did she do it, Drew?”

Gray eyes followed the combing of his fingers through the silk of her hair, curling over his shoulder. “For the same reason that I reacted that first day when Leo dared to put his arm around your shoulder—jealousy, pure and simple.”

“Were you really jealous way back then?” she challenged in a whisper, chuckling in delight at his nod. “But what did that reporter have to be jealous of?” Her fingers intertwined with his on her rib cage.

Drew laughed gently. “That woman has been dating your ex-husband for weeks. They use each other to satisfy their own needs—it’s very common in this line of work. She was particularly annoyed with his behavior later that night—she was with him in the restaurant when he saw you—and decided to take her sweet revenge.” His hand snaked out to tug at her ear lobe in his own form of sweet revenge, his strong forefinger returning by way of her chin to deliver her lips up for his kiss.

When it ended, she searched the silver orbs still caressing her. “You knew all about Bill, yet you insisted I tell you. Why?” She held no anger, merely curiosity.

“Bill only told me
part
of the story; the rest I was able to piece together myself. It helped to explain that infernal battle in your eyes every time I came near, much less touched you. I had to know if you trusted me enough, after everything, to still want to tell me. I’m sure—” he grinned “—that the monster in me also wanted to punish you for running off to Cleveland the way you did. I was frantic until I contacted the airlines. From now on you come to
me
, understand?” She kissed him gently, then dipped her head in agreement, before returning it to his chest.

“Even without my messages, you could have called, you know. I waited by the phone all day,” Daran said.

Drew’s tawny head rocked from side to side. “Not long enough. I was on your doorstep by seven, only to find the place dark and locked. All the while I believed you hadn’t seen the papers, since
you
hadn’t called
me
—to
my
knowledge. I had hoped to clear everything up before showing them to you. It seems Morrow jumped the gun.” Daran recalled the explosion with a shudder. But Drew’s pause was one of deep thought. “Actually it’s my fault for what John and Leo did. With loyalty comes a tendency for overprotectiveness. They had no idea of my feelings for you; if they had, your calls would have been put through immediately. I’m afraid they did see you as the villain!” He squeezed her with his own evil taunt, then lay quiet for a moment. This was the very fullness, the wholeness which Daran cherished—this peaceful camaraderie, this fine meshing of minds. Silent with Drew, she felt complete.

“Do you know how much like your mother you are?” he murmured, his lean cheek against the crown of her head.

A smile spread over her lips as her thoughts winged to Cleveland. “She really came through for me. It’s as though I’ve found a new friend.”

Drew’s chuckle tickled her ear. “She’s a spitfire, that one, just like her daughter. And she loves you very much.”

They lay still, flesh against flesh, Drew basking in Daran’s warmth, she thriving on his strength. Peace and love flowed between them through the silence; soft and intermittent kisses punctuated it. Thoughts of the mad-paced day to begin within hours had no place here. There was only the moment and each other.

“What are you thinking, honey?” he whispered, his breath warm against her forehead.

“Your speech back there in the office—it was very powerful. You had them eating out of the palm of your hand at the end.”

A wicked grin gleamed white in the moonlight. “That was the point. But I meant every word I said—and they knew that. Eloquence is just frosting on the cake.”

As a long and sinewed arm pulled her onto her side and tucked her curves closer to his muscled length, she indulged him his cockiness. Her tongue traced tiny circles on his chest, pausing only at his sharp intake of breath. “Hmm, I could use a little of that eloquence now,” she teased in husky murmur. “You know, talk of love and other such silly things…”

Pulling her soft body on top of his firm one, he propped her head up with his hands. “
Talk
of love? I’ve done enough talking today to last me a lifetime.
Action
is what we need right now!” And action was what they got. The pledges and promises had all been made; this was the time of fulfillment.

Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky’s upcoming book

SWEET SALT AIR

In hardcover in 2013 from St. Martin’s Press

Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.

But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.

When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.

She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.

There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.

The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.

The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.

Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.

But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.

Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.

Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.

Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.

Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.

Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.

Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.

But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.

“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.

His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”

“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”

He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.

He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.

Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.

Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.

Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.

Leo had been nabbed for selling grass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.

Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.

“Want some help?” she called up.

He snorted.

“Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.

“Two hands’ll do.”

Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.

“I’ve done this before,” she said now.

“Uh-huh.”

“I have. I’ve built houses.”

“That so.” He didn’t believe her.

“Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados decimated parts of Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”

He continued to stare.

“All you need,” she said, freeing a hand to hold back the hair that fluttered loose again, “is someone to steady it while you fit the pins in the hinges.”

“Really. I didn’t know that.”

“Okay,” she granted. “So you did. But you could’ve had that hung and been down five minutes ago. Aren’t you cold?” She was appreciating every thick inch of her sweater, while his arms were ropy and bare.

“I’m a man.”

She waited for more. When nothing came, she said, “What does that have to do with it?”

“Men run hot.”

“Really.” Refusing to be baited, she returned her hand to her armpit, shifted to a more comfortable stance, and smiled. “Great. I’ll watch while you get that shutter hung. Maybe I can learn how you do it alone.”

Apparently realizing he’d been one-upped, he said, “Fine. Since you know it all, here’s your chance.” He backed down, put the shutter on the ground against his leg, and gestured her toward the ladder.

“I’m not lugging that thing up,” she said.

“No, but if you get up there, I can hold the shutter while you do the fitting. Assuming you can see. Your hair’s a mess.”

“Thanks,” she said brightly and gripped the rail. Two ladders would have been better. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of climbing this one with him at her butt. She would be at his mercy. But she did have a point to prove.

So she began to climb, looking back every few rungs to see where he was. When she reached the top, she felt his shoulder against the back of her thighs. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said he was making sure she didn’t fall.

But she did know better. Leo Cole had no use for women, or so the story went. If he was standing that close, he was toying with her.

She didn’t like being toyed with—and, yes, her hair was in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pushing it back. Fortunately, she knew enough about hanging shutters to do it, hair and all. While he bore the weight of the wood, she easily lined up both pairs of hinges and pins, and that quickly it was done.