Hale's Point (25 page)

Harley sat down at a microfiche reader and inserted her film.
Clutching the knobs, she leaned forward to inspect the miniature white-on-black
pages as they
scrolled
down the screen. Nothing on
page one, nothing on page two, nothing on page three… Surely there would have
been some kind of public statement about his release. If it had really
happened, that is.

Finally, after ten minutes of searching, she found what she
was looking for, was hoping to find but fearing she wouldn’t—a small item with
no picture, buried dozens of pages into the paper. The words leapt out at her:
Tucker Hale Released From Prison Today.

Frantically she twirled the focus knob, squinting to make out
the story:
Tucker Hale, twenty-one,
falsely convicted on five counts of drug trafficking, was released from prison
this morning….

She slumped in her seat, resting her forehead against the
screen. “Thank God,” she whispered. “Thank God.”

Her chair tipped over and clattered to the floor as she
stood, but she barely noticed. Grabbing her purse, she jogged toward the door.

The clerk’s voice followed her as she sprinted from the
building. ‘“
Scuse
me. Miss? Hey! You
gotta
return that film to the desk. I
told
you!”

***

Half an hour later, Tucker sat next to Harley on the stone
wall overlooking the beach, numb from emotional overload. First, the phone call
that had come while she was gone, leaving him reeling. Then Harley’s return and
unexpected apology. He wanted to accept it graciously, but he wasn’t feeling
particularly gracious at the moment.

He spoke slowly. “I just wish… I don’t know. I wish you
hadn’t found it so easy to believe the worst about me. I know it’s hard to
discount something you read in black-and-white, but a little doubt would have
helped.”

She nodded, staring glassy-eyed over his shoulder at the sun
sparkling on the corrugated surface of Long Island Sound. “I’m sorry I didn’t
question it. I jumped to conclusions. I think I did it because I was scared.”

“Scared of what? Me?”

She transferred her gaze to her hands, clenched tightly in
her lap. “You hit the nail on the head that first night, before you left, when
you said I was afraid of anything messy or unexpected in my life. I didn’t
expect you in my life. And I sure didn’t expect to…to grow to feel anything
for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t handle it. I messed everything up. I’d like to…to
wipe the slate clean and start over, if we could. I promise I won’t bring my
preconceptions and prejudices into our relationship. I mean, now that you’ve
explained how it was, what really happened—”

“You mean, now that you’ve had a chance to go to the library
and research my explanation like it was part of some thesis you were working
on?”

Clearly stung, she reddened and looked away.

He said, “Honey, I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry you couldn’t
accept my version of things on faith.” He saw her swallow hard as she nodded
again. Softening to her, he added, “But I’m also sorry for the part I played in
all of this. I shouldn’t have kept Miami a secret from you. I realize that,
now. And for that I apologize. I guess we’ve both been partially to blame.”

After a long pause, he said, “Maybe it’s best that this
happened when it did. I mean, what do we have in common— really have in
common—besides the fact that our mothers killed themselves? Maybe you and I
just weren’t meant to…”

She bit her lip, and he knew she was struggling to hold her emotions
in check. He resisted the impulse to take her in his arms and comfort her, much
as he wanted to. If he held her, he would want to kiss her. And if he kissed
her…

No. There had been enough complications, enough confusion,
for one summer. Why add pathos to what should be a clean end to things?

A minute or more ticked by. He turned and gazed out at the
Sound, trying to follow her line of sight. Near the horizon, the tiny
silhouettes of two sailboats drifted slowly to-ward the east, and the Atlantic.

“Liz called,” he said, his eyes following the boats’ stately
progress. “While you were at the library.
R.H.
had a
series of angina attacks and decided to cut his sailing trip short.” From the
corner of his eye, he saw her turn to look at him. “He’s in Fort Lauderdale
now, but he’s booked a morning flight. She’ll meet him at La Guardia and drive
him back here. They’ll be arriving around one, tomorrow afternoon.”

Chapter 12

Tucker spent the afternoon
and early evening in the
black Jag, touring Long Island’s back roads for hours, with no particular
purpose or destination. A long drive usually relaxed him, distracted him from
his troubles, but this one just felt pointless. The only thing that kept him
behind the wheel was the knowledge that if he went back to the house, he would
have to interact with Harley. Psyching himself up to leave, getting used to the
idea so he could find the strength to do it, was hard enough. If he had to look
at her while he thought about it, it would be impossible.

It was dark by the time he pulled the car into the driveway.
The lights were on in the house, and he saw shadowy movement behind the kitchen
curtains. He sat in the driver’s seat for a minute and then got out and walked
across the brightly lit patio and the dark lawn to the low stone wall
overlooking the Sound. He sat facing the inky, moonlit water and breathed
deeply, imprinting in his mind the distinctive fragrance that existed in this
one spot and no other—lavender and thyme, salt air and seaweed.

The fragrance of Hale’s Point. He would miss it.

He patted his T-shirt pocket and sighed. That was a reflex
that would take some time to lose, but one that was worth losing.

The waves were unhurried tonight, a steady
hush… hush… hush.
There were other
sounds, a lazy summer symphony carried on the warm breeze. He heard the distant
drone of a powerboat way out on the water.

The ambient light behind him disappeared, leaving the yard
that much darker; she must have shut off the patio lights. He turned around
just in time to see the sudden appearance of a glowing blue rectangle in the
darkness as the pool lights snapped on. Where was she? Ah, there…walking
across the patio to the shallow end, wearing that white terry-cloth robe of
hers. She started untying it, and he turned back to face the Sound, leaning
forward, elbows on knees, concentrating on the ceaseless, comforting
hush
of the waves.

Their uneven rhythm was soon accompanied by gentle splashes
from the pool as Harley took her evening swim. It was a short swim; he soon
heard a different kind of splash and knew she was climbing out onto the deck. He
glanced back over his shoulder and froze, staring.

She was naked.

Her lithe body shone like wet marble as she walked over to
the outdoor shower and turned it on, testing the water.

She had swum in the nude. Did she know he was there? The Jag
sat in the driveway, and she would have heard him drive up. Still…

She stood beneath the spray and rinsed off, her back to him.
Then she turned toward him, tilted her face up, and let the water flow through
her hair as she ran her fingers through it.

She was perfect. He had never seen anyone like her, so
flawlessly proportioned, tight and firm, with no excess anything. Tucker had
always admired simplicity of design, a byproduct of his love for cars, boats,
and planes. Sighing with regret, he turned back toward the water.

Presently he heard the soft whisper of footsteps on the
grass. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw her walking toward him, complete
with robe, her wet hair slicked back. The robe was very white in the dark, and
she had both hands in the pockets. He lifted his legs over the stone wall and
sat facing her as she approached.

She came to stand before him, withdrew one hand, and held it
out to him. He took it in his. Her eyes beckoned him, a silent invitation,
breathtaking in its frankness. He instantly grew hard.

When he found his voice, he said, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Her expression carefully neutral, she nodded. She had clearly
expected this. Without releasing his hand, she took a step forward and knelt
before him, his long, jeans-clad legs flanking her. Softly she said, “Then we
should make the most of the time we have.” They had been his words. He had said
them to her that first night, when he had come to her room, reckless and
overeager. Overeager for her body, not for her. That was before he had fallen
in love with her. Before everything had gotten so thrilling and wonderful, so
full of potential… and so ultimately impossible.

He realized he was staring at her, overwhelmed and uncertain.
It was she who acted, she who let go of his hand to reach up with both of hers
and guide his head down, meeting his mouth with her own in a deep and
passionate kiss. She had never taken it upon herself to kiss him before, and
after a moment’s stunned hesitation, a flood of longing washed through him,
like a dam breaking somewhere deep inside.

His arms encircled her; he couldn’t have stopped them if he’d
wanted. He held her tight, clamped between his legs, his mouth crushed to hers,
her scent and her warmth filling him, consuming him. She wrapped her arms
around him, pulling him closer. The kiss was blindingly intense. When his lungs
were searing and his heart ready to explode, he tore his mouth away, gasping
her name.

He watched in slow motion as she fell back onto the grass,
and realized as he followed her, settling onto her and fitting his body to
hers, that she had pulled him down with her. Their mouths found each other’s
again as they molded together in a hungry embrace.

They rolled to the side; he stroked her wet hair, her
shoulders and back, cupped her bottom through the terry doth and pressed her
toward him so she could feel the effect she had on him. She slipped a leg
between his and moved her hips, and he moaned, pulling her hard against him and
guiding the rhythm of her movements with his hands. All his reservations
evaporated in the wake of his overpowering need.

Too overpowering. He was too close, it was happening too
fast. It was her first time, he would have to go slowly, but at this rate that
wouldn’t be possible. He drew away from her and lay back on the cool grass, his
chest heaving. Closing his eyes, he willed control over himself.

Her fingertips, cool and soft, brushed his hair, his face,
his throat. He opened his eyes and saw that she was sitting next to him,
looking down. Her moonlit face was clouded with sadness, and he knew she
already grieved for tomorrow. He took her hand, pressed her palm to his lips,
and kissed it.

“Don’t think about it,” he murmured. “Think about now.”

She banished the grief from her eyes. “I don’t want to think
at all.” She reached for the sash of her robe, fumbling with its double knot.
Instantly his hard-won control vanished, replaced by unstoppable desire.
Impatience drove him as he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her to the ground,
straddling her and yanking at the knot until it loosened.

A heartbeat’s pause…
Slow
down, Tucker, take it slow
. The robe—that damn robe that had taunted and
teased him all summer—was unbound, but unopened.
Slow, now. For her.

Harley sensed his inner struggle. She looked up at his face,
incandescent against the night sky, as he slowly parted the robe and gazed down
at her. Surprisingly, she felt not the least embarrassed under his rapt
scrutiny, just as she had felt no shame earlier, swimming in the nude, hoping
he would see her, come to her, join her. She had been forced to come to him,
but that was all right. That was good. After the way she had screwed things up,
that was as it should be.

He touched a finger to her brow; she must have been frowning.
“No thinking.” he reminded her softly.

She forced a smile. “I forgot.”

He buried his hands in her hair and massaged her scalp until
it buzzed with pleasure and her eyes closed of their own accord. Lowering his
touch, he traced light, feathery paths across eyelids and cheekbones and lips.
She found it oddly moving for him to devote this kind of attention to her face
when her body lay exposed beneath him.

He did not ignore it for long. Her throat was next, and his
delicate ministrations drew a purr from her. He ran a finger lightly back and
forth along each collarbone, and then paused. Her breasts felt warm from his
nearness even before he lowered his hands to lightly rest on them. When he
caressed her—gently, as if he were testing fruit that he didn’t want to
bruise—she moaned, and felt her nipples tighten. He grazed them with his palms,
then captured one and leaned down to take it in his warm mouth. His teeth
lightly scraped the tender flesh, igniting currents of pleasure that shot
through her like lightning.

She opened her eyes. He was still fully dressed. That wouldn’t
do. She sat up, pulling at his T-shirt, which he whipped over his head and
tossed into the darkness. She kissed his throat and those impossibly wide
shoulders, her hands exploring him eagerly, while his tangled in her hair. When
she reached the scar tissue on his left side, she paused. She considered his
leg, his chest, his back, the terrible wounds.