Take Me All the Way (2 page)

True enough, only a month ago, the patio they sat on just across from Coral Cove Beach had been pockmarked asphalt, part of the parking lot. But Cami had succeeded in getting the owners of the seafood restaurant to put in a small patio enclosed with a wooden fence draped with fishing net and a few white, round life preservers, and also to add a festive new drink menu, designed with Cami's help. Music, another new feature, played over newly installed speakers—at the moment Bastille sang about flaws. And since then, business had picked up and they'd even started staying open later.

“And at least we're not drinking beer!” Christy announced triumphantly with a short nod in Tamra's direction. In fact, Tamra was drinking her second Ahoy Mateys, a rather tasty tropical rum concoction, while her friends both sipped on a couple of All Hands on Decks, the Hungry Fisherman's version of a Long Island iced tea.

“You know what else?” Christy said in her merry way. “The more good changes that keep taking place around here, the more new people there will be to meet.”

Tamra glanced absently across the table at Christy—just in time to realize the statement had been targeted directly toward her.

So she arched one eyebrow in reply. And decided it was time to address the elephant on the patio. “Christy, I know you mean well—but why do you think I want to meet new people?”

“Well, I just thought—”

“And given the resorts up the road”—which kept Coral Cove's beach and Sunset Celebration thriving despite the businesses in this older part of town needing a boost—“there are already plenty of new people coming and going all the time. So as much as I'm on board with sprucing up the area, I don't think it's going to have any impact on my social life. Which is fine just the way it is—promise.”

The women across the table from her went quiet. And Tamra realized she'd probably sounded annoyed. Crap. “I'm sorry,” she said immediately. “Maybe rum makes me defensive or something. And I don't mean to sound unappreciative. It's just that . . .” She let out a sigh. And, for lack of any better options, blurted out the ugly truth. “Okay, I know everyone feels sorry for me because I have no love life. And that's nice of you all, but it's really all right.”

“It's not that we feel sorry for you,” Cami rushed to say.

“It's just that . . . well, wouldn't you like to find someone?” Christy asked. “I mean, deep down, isn't that what everyone really wants if they're honest with themselves?”

Whoa. This had suddenly turned into a deep conversation. Or deep by Tamra's standards anyway.
Being an artist, she certainly had the capacity to be deep, but . . . she didn't always let it show. It was easier that way.

Both Christy and Cami really did have great lives. And she didn't begrudge them that—but she often wondered if they really understood how different their existences were from hers. They were both so outgoing, whereas she tended to be a little more reserved, even guarded. They were pretty and perky and vibrant, while she was just more . . . well, average in all those ways.

She'd never been the life of a party, or “the hot girl,” or even “the pretty girl.” And she was fine with that really, because the one time in her life when she'd truly felt pretty and special had ultimately ended up making her feel ugly inside, and she'd begun to suspect that being pretty was sometimes actually more of a detriment to a woman than a help. So she was good with who she was.

“The fact is,” she began slowly, thoughtfully, “some people just aren't meant to have the whole big dating-and-relationship thing. And I'm not interested in chasing after it. And I really
do
think you guys feel sorry for me—but stop, okay?” She tried to laugh, like it was all fun and games. “It's really fine.”

The other two women stayed quiet for a moment, until Cami asked gently, “Then why don't you
look
like it's fine?”

Oh hell. It was the rum. She'd forgotten to
keep
laughing, keep her smile in place. And maybe the rum was bringing out something else, too, something she'd just been trying to ignore. And she'd been doing a pretty good job of it . . . until this very moment.

Trying to concoct a reply, she peered out over the beach as a sea breeze lifted her long, wavy, auburn hair, which she'd pulled back in a low ponytail lately to keep it at bay. And she wasn't sure how to account for her expression other than with . . . stark honesty. An honesty and awareness suddenly bubbling inside her, almost actually
wanting
to come out. Damn rum.

So she took a fortifying sip of her Ahoy Mateys and said, “You want to know the truth?”

“Of course,” Christy said.

And Tamra dropped her gaze to her colorful drink, another wistful sigh escaping her. “I really am okay with the situation, except for . . . the sex part.” She'd muttered the last few words. More to herself than to her companions. Then realized she'd really, truly said that out loud, and added, “Oh crap. Apparently rum makes me spill my guts, too.”

“Wow,” Christy said, looking as stunned as Tamra felt.

But . . . didn't women talk about sex all the time? Not
her, ever
, until now—but wasn't this normal? “Wow?” she asked, a little embarrassed, worried. Had she breached some social protocol she didn't know about?

“It's just that . . . you're usually so reserved and—and straitlaced, I guess,” Christy mused, flashing a little grin. “I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but you just don't seem like someone who thinks about sex. Or at least you never talk about it.”

Tamra sheepishly lifted her glass. “It's the rum talking.”

Christy's smile broadened. “Then I think maybe I
like
you drinking rum.”

All three of them laughed, but Tamra was quick
to move forward with more of an answer. Even if she didn't know exactly what she wanted to say now that she'd opened this personal can of worms. “Well, normally I'm
not
someone who thinks much about sex.”

Only then she decided that was enough, right there. Because sure, there was more she could say on the topic—much more—yet why put herself through that? The rum, apparently, had decided to shut up now.

“But . . . enough about that. Let's talk about your wedding,” she said to Christy with an enthusiastic tone she hoped would catch on. “Are all the plans set? What's left to be done?”

“W-h-h-hait a minute,” Cami said, sounding a little intoxicated. “Not so fast.”

Tamra just blinked.

And Cami went on. “You can't say what you just said and not tell us the rest.”

“Well, sure I can,” Tamra insisted. “And there
is
no rest. Not really.”

“No,” Christy argued. “Cami's right. I like this side of you.”

Tamra's back went a little more rigid, though she worked to keep sounding casual. “What side of me? I've really said very little if you think about it.”

“But just enough,” Christy pointed out, “to make me feel like we're . . . getting to know you more. I mean, I know we know you, but . . . you don't open up a lot. This is probably the most personal conversation we've ever had about you. And I already feel like I know you way better than I did just five minutes ago.”

Tamra could have responded to that in many ways. There were plenty of reasons she wasn't as open and trusting as a lot of other people. She almost
envied the quick way Christy and Cami bonded with people—whereas Tamra's bonds formed much more slowly.

And she supposed it was that which made her choose the simplest reply, the one she thought she could just spit out and get over with the quickest—which was, yet again, frank honesty. And yeah, it felt
super
personal to tell them this, but maybe the rum's gut-spilling effects were on the upswing again.

“Okay . . . here goes.” Though she paused, nibbled her lower lip a second, and then made the mental push forward to share the things she was just now admitting to herself. And it all came out in a rush, like a big bucket of words being dumped out of her mouth. “Like I said, usually I don't sit around thinking about sex, but lately I'm just feeling . . . those urges. A lot. As in it's driving me crazy. Yesterday I saw a hot construction worker out on Route Nineteen and practically drooled.

“But I'm not the sort of person who just wants to hook up with someone, and even if I was I have no idea where I'd find a suitable guy, so no matter how you slice it, it's . . . frustrating.” She stopped, giving her head a nervous little shake, predictably uncomfortable with the topic. Time to shut up again. “And that's really it—all there is to it.”

Though she was quick to lift a finger high into the air then, because she needed to make something perfectly clear. “But that doesn't mean I'm desperate to meet men, okay?” After which she lowered her voice, since a woman at another table glanced over. “Which is good, since there are so few around here who aren't taken.”

The truth was, even most of the vacationing men were usually married. Coral Cove drew families and couples. Occasional groups of young women or college boys, but mostly it was a crowd of matched pairs.

“Happy now?” she asked.

And she was just gearing up for the next assault, preparing to defend her position—since well-meaning people who were parts of happy couples always seemed committed to convincing everyone else they
also
belonged in a happy couple—when the blare of a siren cut through the Coral Cove night.

A siren in Coral Cove was as rare as . . . well, as rare as sex for Tamra—she was pretty sure she hadn't heard one in all the years she'd lived here. So it halted the conversation instantly, and they all looked up to see the glow of bright blue lights atop one of Coral Cove's three police cruisers as it came screeching into the Hungry Fisherman's freshly paved parking lot.

Two of the town's half dozen cops rushed from the car, running into the space that separated the restaurant from the Happy Crab, toward the dock that lined the bay a short distance behind the buildings.

Polly hurried out the front door in the same rust-colored waitress uniform she always wore, the outdated beehive hairdo atop her head slanting this way and that as she struggled to see what was happening. “What in the Sam Hill?” she asked, looking after the cops.

She turned to the girls and other patrons on the patio, as if
they
knew what in the Sam Hill, but of course they didn't. Christy held her hands up in silent reply to Polly, as if to say,
Who knows?

A few minutes later, both cops reappeared, coming
from the direction of the dock, but now they escorted between them a scruffy, bearded guy in handcuffs. Leading him to the cruiser, they pushed him into the backseat as everyone on the patio gaped.

“Lord, who on earth is that?” Tamra asked.

And Cami said, “Uh oh. That's the guy Reece has been letting stay at the motel for free. I'd better call him.”

And as the police car's blue lights faded into the night, leaving the Hungry Fisherman quiet and peaceful once again, Tamra said, “Well, there you go—case in point. If that's the best this town has to offer me in the way of new men, I think I'll just stay celibate.”

What could you do for a boy like that?

Frances Hodgson Burnett,
The Secret Garden

“T
HE THROAT?
You picked a guy up by the throat?”

Jeremy sat on a hard cot in a small holding cell in the Coral Cove Police Station, looking through the thin bars at Reece Donovan, who'd pulled a folding chair up close on the other side.

“Yep,” Jeremy replied. He wasn't exactly proud of what he'd done, but on the other hand, he still thought the punk had earned it.

Reece, however—sitting there in his usual flip-flops and cargo shorts—just shook his head, looking perplexed. “Why?”

Jeremy kept it simple. “He kicked a cat.”

“A cat?” Reece blinked.

And Jeremy nodded.

Reece squinted, clearly trying to make sense of this. “You a big cat lover or something?”

“Nope. But the guy had no cause. Kicked it so hard it went flying into a tree trunk.” Just then he noticed the two cops who'd arrested him standing on the
other side of the room gawking at him like he had horns sprouting from his head. He knew he didn't look good lately, but damn. He switched his glance from them back to Reece. “What the hell are those two staring at?”

Reece looked over, too, then back through the bars. “I'm guessing it's the first time in a while they've had a prisoner in here. They probably don't quite know how to handle it.”

“My first time being one, too,” Jeremy informed him. Then muttered, “And I'm starting to feel like an animal in the zoo.”

“The cops were asking me if you had an anger problem,” Reece informed him.

But Jeremy shook his head. “It wasn't an anger problem—it was an asshole problem.”

Outside the cell, Reece leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. Finally he said, “Shit, dude—I like you. And I wanna help you out. But . . .”

Jeremy let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Or maybe he'd been holding his breath for weeks, months, possibly even years.

Something colored Reece's voice, and it was . . . burden. Most people in Jeremy's life never quite let that out, let it show. They cared about him and knew he'd been through bad things. But Reece . . . Reece didn't know him or his past.

“This isn't me.” The words left him in a murmur, unplanned.

“What?” Reece asked.

Jeremy looked up, met Reece's gaze for the first real time since he'd walked in here. “This isn't me,” he said again. “But after I got back from Afghanistan, things
changed.” Then he let his eyes drop to the floor between them. He didn't like letting weaknesses show.

“Damn, man,” Reece said. “I saw your tattoo, so I knew you were military.” Jeremy had gotten a U.S. Marines emblem, along with the words
Semper Fi
, tattooed on his right biceps only after returning home. Something about trying to hold on to that hero persona. But stamping it on his arm hadn't made him any more of a hero than he'd been in the first place. “I didn't know you'd been in Afghanistan, though.”

Jeremy didn't reply to that because he had nothing else to say. He'd already said too much. He didn't regret defending a helpless animal. But he regretted garnering anyone's sympathy. Silence stretched between them, expanding to fill the room like something heavy and smothering.

“Can we make a deal?” Reece said a long moment later.

Jeremy flicked his gaze tentatively upward to the guy outside the bars. “What's the deal?”

“I'm gonna bail you out,” Reece said. “And I'm gonna talk to the guy who owns the boat and whose son you attacked and try like hell to get him to drop the charges because you're a military veteran and my friend. And you can keep staying at the Happy Crab. But in return, I'm putting you to work. On some projects around town. My girlfriend is the town planner and she's looking to hire someone for some heavy lifting, landscaping, and light construction. You be able to handle that?”

A job. Someone was offering him a job.

One that had nothing to do with protecting people, thank God.

And hell, that felt unexpectedly good. “Yeah,” he said simply.

“All right,” Reece told him. “Your first few paychecks can go toward paying off your bail and back rent on the room. Can you handle that, too?”

“Sure,” he said again.

Reece just looked at him for a long, sizing-up kind of minute—probably trying to decide if he'd made the right call here. Jeremy didn't know the answer any more than Reece did. Finally Reece commented, “You don't say much.”

“Nope.”

At this, Reece just laughed, then pushed to his feet. “Hang tight, I'm gonna go bail you out.”

But as he started to walk away, Jeremy decided there was one more thing he
should
say, even if he kept it quiet, short. “Reece,” he said.

Reece stopped and looked back.

And Jeremy added, “Thanks.”

T
AMRA
wrapped a sweater around her and warmed her hands on the big mug of hot tea she'd just made for herself. It wasn't that cold out, but fall had brought cooler nights to Coral Cove, the temperatures dropping after dark, and she found herself wanting to bask in the softer air.

It was late—nearly one
A.M.—
and she sat in the garden she'd created behind her small beach cottage on Sea Shell Lane. She'd had the yard enclosed with a tall privacy fence almost as soon as she'd moved in—common in Florida because so many people had swimming pools. Yet no one had known her well
enough at the time to ask why, and even though she'd made friends since then, no one had particularly inquired about the choice.

She'd wanted to create a sort of private paradise, a serene place for her and her alone, and since that time, her garden had been an elaborate work in progress. Always in progress—she was always adding things, changing things. Just last week she'd added snapdragons in a sunny spot, which she knew would grow taller and more robust than they ever had the chance to do in northern climes, and several pottery birdbaths she'd crafted hung from the branches of various trees. She sat surrounded by orange marmalade and white plumeria and giant elephant ear plants as a soft sea breeze riffled through a set of windchimes she'd made as well, and the sweet scent of the bougainvillea draping the west wall wafted past her.

It had indeed become her secret haven, the place she went to just be with her own thoughts, find peace when she needed it, feel
more
peace when she already had it.

Sometimes she napped in the hammock strung between two tall palm trees, but tonight she sat curled up in one of the white Adirondack chairs she'd placed in a semi-circle around the fire pit she'd installed. She used the fire pit often when the weather was cool enough, but not the other chairs.

She looked at them now, wondering for the first time why she'd even bought more than one when she never invited anyone into her garden, never let it be enjoyed by anyone but herself.

Of course, her friends had
seen
the garden—they'd either peered out at it through the French doors at the
rear of the cottage, or they'd helped her carry things in and out through the side gate. Fletcher, who lived right across Sea Shell Lane from her, was always quick to notice out the window if she was toting in new shrubbery or big bags of potting soil and coming over to help. And her friends always seemed complimentary and even in awe of the space she'd tucked away back here when they had occasion to view it—but they never invited themselves over. Even Christy, who was so perky and sociable and lived right next door. Tamra couldn't help thinking that, while it had never been said, on some level they knew it was a place she'd created only for herself.

Wouldn't you like to have them over? Wouldn't it be nice to have drinks around the fire with Christy and Cami? Wouldn't it be pleasant to roast marshmallows and make s'mores with Fletcher? Or maybe invite John and Nancy Romo, the nice older couple a few streets away, over for a glass of wine?

Yet something in her core tensed slightly at the idea. She didn't know why. And yet it remained there, floating heavy inside her.

Her discussion tonight with Christy and Cami had been oddly warming. She usually just found it annoying when her friends pushed romance on her, suggesting she should be out chasing men and making her feel almost abnormal not to be doing that. But tonight, even as uncomfortable as she'd been blurting out frank truths about herself, it had touched her when they'd openly wanted to be closer to her, know her better. And it had made her realize how many walls she'd put up—not just around this garden, but inside herself, too.

Yet . . . when all was said and done, she was still happier here alone. Happier to just be completely at ease, completely comfortable, by herself.

There's nothing wrong with it. Enjoying your own company is healthy. You can't love anyone else until you love yourself.
And though it had taken a little time after her unconventional upbringing on a commune in Arizona, she really did love herself now. But she still didn't trust easily. And she wasn't sure there was an upside to changing that. It was better to take care of yourself, and easier to stay happy and productive if you didn't put yourself at risk with people.

How on earth would inviting Cami and Christy back here for a drink put you at risk, for heaven's sake?
It wouldn't, that simple. So maybe this wasn't even
about
risk. Maybe it was just about personal comfort and ease. Everyone needed a place that was strictly their own and this was hers.

Now if only your stupid body would quit aching with lust.
She prayed this was only a phase, one that would end quickly. And good Lord, she still couldn't believe she'd told Christy and Cami about that tonight. Word vomit. Even if it had it resulted in making her friends feel more connected to her, it had still been word vomit.

She'd been trying to deny it even to herself for a while now. But the truth was that she suffered the warm spread of sexual desire flowing through her like hot lava almost all the time lately.

She'd suffered it this morning during a walk on the beach, where she'd seen all the things she normally saw there—but now she suddenly saw them differently. Felt them differently. She'd witnessed a couple kissing on a blanket and envied what they shared,
hungered for what they experienced. The feel of wet sand on her toes, the cool ocean water lapping up onto them, had affected her in different ways than ever before, affected other parts of her body.

And she'd thought about it this afternoon when she'd worked in the art studio in her cottage. Digging her hands into the same clay she always worked with had held a fresh . . . awareness. Touching it had made her want to touch other, far different things. A man's body.

And she'd felt it still more while weeding beneath her banyan tree just before the Sunset Celebration. Rich soil on her fingers, even the trowel in her hand, had held a newness for her, a strange yearning she couldn't seem to shake free of. Being in her garden usually brought her an enormous sense of peace—she'd filled it with things she loved, after all—but today the overriding emotion had been frustration.

At thirty-five, she hadn't thought much about sex in a long while. She knew most women were more into sex, but she'd just never suffered that compelling need for it that so many seemed to.

In her teens and early twenties, there'd been guys, experiences—but since then, not so much. And mostly, she'd been okay with that. Until now. The spot between her thighs ached even as she sat clutching the mug between her hands. People acted like sex was so fun, but when your body wanted it and couldn't have it, well . . . she didn't see anything fun about
that
at all.

Maybe it's the birth control pills.
She'd started taking them just recently—her doctor's remedy for an irregular cycle that often came with bad cramping. And it had worked—thank God. But she knew the pill affected various hormones and wondered if this new
rush of sexual need had perhaps been instigated by the change.

And while a part of her suffered the urge to pull up her skirt, bare herself to the bright moon peering down from a clear, dark sky, and just take care of her own needs, the thought made her feel . . . more needy than sensuous. She knew plenty of people took care of the issue that way, but the very idea made her feel lonely. And she didn't
want
to feel lonely. She'd felt lonely in Arizona. She'd felt lonely all through her growing up years, even with people all around her. She'd finally
quit
feeling lonely when she'd left—because being alone wasn't what made you lonely; it was about something else. And why do something that would make her feel lonely in any way whatsoever? She'd rather lose a little sleep over the physical frustration and just pray, again, that it would subside.

Was it possible, though, to be content in her private world here and . . . still feel a little empty inside? That didn't quite add up, did it?
It's the sex issue making you feel empty, that's all. Your life is great otherwise.

And even if there
was
something missing . . . well, maybe it was just easier not acknowledging that. She'd built a wonderful little life for herself here—so she was going to keep right on telling herself that it was enough, all she needed to be happy.

C
AMI
had arranged for an empty lot along Coral Street, which ran down the strip of land that stretched between the beach and the bay, to be paved and made into a municipal parking lot. It would serve the “Coral Street Business District,” as she'd recently dubbed the
area she was busy bringing back to life. Three days after Tamra had “gotten dressed” to “go out” with the girls, she was joining up with Cami, Reece, Fletcher, Christy, Jack, and anyone else who was willing to pitch in, for the task of planting shrubbery and perennials around the small lot's perimeter to make it visually appealing.