Within Reach (11 page)

Second, she realized that she was, at some point, going to have to look for work. It might take time, both to secure a job that would conform to her life-style and then to garner the courage to confront Blake with her decision, but she was increasingly convinced as each day passed that it was the wisest course open to her.

Third and finally, she
was
going to Maine. She had thought it all out. She wanted to be away from the city, away from the emptiness that seemed to characterize her life there. She wanted fresh air, open space, time to herself in a less prescribed environment.

She had also thought a great deal about Michael, and specifically, her attraction to him. In the weeks since she had seen him, she had put into perspective what she’d felt that day on the beach. She liked him very, very much. He stirred her in ways that might have been wrong if she hadn’t been so committed to her marriage. True, she fantasized about him, but that was okay. The reading she had done—and she’d done a great deal of it on the subject since that last trip north—had said that fantasizing was normal and, in its way, healthy. Put in its proper place, it could do her no harm.

Michael knew the facts of her life, that she was married, that she could never offer him more than a friendly hug or companionable hand-holding. God only knew she needed both of those things. Should she deprive herself of a very lovely, very warm, close relationship?

Her real source of protection, though, came from something that was as yet only the merest suspicion, the faintest hope. She was overdue for her period, and she had always been punctual to the day. If she was pregnant, her problems might be solved. Not that she set great stock in Blake’s attentiveness as a father—nothing he had done in recent years as a husband had warranted such faith. But she would be a mother, and a whole new world would open to her.

Thus fortified, she headed for Maine on the twenty-third of June. It was a Friday morning. Blake, surprisingly enough, was accompanying her, taking the Mercedes while she drove the Audi so that he could return to Boston the following day. He had said that he wanted to see her settled, and indeed, she had brought along several cartons of things—clothes, a stereo, records, books—so his help was appreciated. He hadn’t even suggested that Marcus do the dirty work; perhaps he had known she would have insisted on doing it herself given that particular choice. Then again, perhaps he felt guilty.

He was a fine caretaker; she had to say that much. And though she sensed his accompanying her was more a conciliatory gesture than anything else, she couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Ironically, Blake was more satisfied than she had ever seen him in Maine. He patiently helped her unload what she had brought, spent several hours out on the deck with her explaining all he would be doing back home that would keep him from joining her for several weeks at least, took her into Ogunquit for dinner, and was perfectly amiable the whole time. He made no attempt to touch her that night, and she felt no urge for him to do so, but he did kiss her sweetly before he set off the next day, and he did promise to call every few days.

For the first time his departure didn’t bother her. He was going home. She felt she
was
home. This place was hers as no other house she had ever lived in had been. In part it was because the responsibility of its care rested on her shoulders, in part because here she was fully responsible for herself. There was no maid to cook or clean or make the bed, no handyman/chauffeur to open and close windows, to bring deck chairs in from the rain, to lock up at night. She did everything herself, when and how she wanted, and she loved it. She felt confident and capable and thoroughly self-satisfied. She felt free.

The first thing she did after Blake left was to drive into town to buy food, then to stop at a local shop and pick up several pairs of jeans and some T-shirts. There was a certain perverse pleasure in wearing Kennebunkport plastered across her chest; she had never done anything as…as plebeian before, but then, she’d never wanted to be a part of the crowd before. The chic shops she patronized in Boston and New York would never have dreamed of carrying either the knockabout sandals or no-name sneakers she bought, a fact that made these items all the more valuable to her. Moreover, she totally enjoyed the salespeople who helped her and spent a startling amount of time talking with them, such that it was nearly dark when she finally returned to the house.

Too dark to seek Michael out. And on a Saturday night, not right. After all, the man might not be married or otherwise attached, but he still had to date. He was human. Very male. Certainly sought after by women.

Hence, it was midday Sunday when she finally felt it fair to intrude upon his weekend. Donning one of her new T-shirts, the sneakers and a pair of the jeans she had spent the previous night washing and drying three times, she set out across the beach. She had never seen his house. It was time she did.

Set at the end of a winding road in a way hers was not, the house was perched above the rocks and was sheltered by numerous clumps of pitch pines that kept it hidden from view until well after she passed the familiar boulders. A stairway of stone, guarded by a weathered handrail, had been etched from the rocks and led to the deck. There wasn’t a back door, only a screen where the glass slider had been opened. Given the brightness of the day, she couldn’t see inside.

She started across the deck, then, unsure for the first time, moistened her lips and wondered if she was being too forward. Previously Michael had done the approaching and it had been on the beach, a casual enough place for an encounter with a friend.

Then she caught herself. He
was
a friend, and had
he
been a
she
, Danica doubted she would feel any of the hesitancy she did now. It was just going to take some getting used to—this close friendship with a man—she told herself.

Bolstered by that understanding and by the sheer excitement of seeing him again, she approached the screen, shaded her eyes from the outside glare with one hand and peered inside.

“Michael?” she called softly. She heard voices, but it was too late to turn back. “Michael?” Slightly louder. She still couldn’t see a thing.

Then she did. The man himself. Approaching the screen, sliding it back, surprise and pleasure lighting his face.

“Danica!”

She smiled, feeling as pleased as he looked. “I just, uh, just wanted to say hello.”

He took a caressive hold of her shoulder. “You’re back.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Looks that way.”

“That’s great,” he said softly, taking in her features before slowly lowering his gaze and arching a brow in amusement. “You’ve been shopping.”

“Uh-huh.” She glanced down. “What do you think? Will I fit in?”

“You would fit in anywhere. God, you look great!” The sound came from deep in his throat, a near growl that made her believe every word contained therein.

“So do you.”

He was wearing a velour robe that reached midthigh, and nothing else. Danica couldn’t seem to drag her eyes from his legs, which were long and lean and spattered with the same tawny hair that escaped the robe at his chest.

Her appraisal was enough to startle him into realization of his disheveled state, and he swore under his breath. “Hell, I’m a mess!” Before she could argue, he held up a hand and commanded, “Wait here.” He was halfway through the living room before he turned and hurried back to grab her hand and draw her into the house. When at his urging she slid into a chair, he popped a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll be right back.” Then he was gone, leaving her grinning, which seemed to be a common affliction when she was with him, she mused.

His brief absence gave Danica time to look around, which she did with interest. The armchair she sat on, its mate and a matching sofa were of soft, aged leather that looked rich and well-worn, and wore the haphazardly strewn Sunday paper with flair. In the center of the room stood a low table of slate that matched both the fireplace and the floor. The latter was softened by a large and handsome area rug of Scandinavian design.

Very clearly, there had been a method to the basic decor, but basic was where the method stopped. For on every table, every wall, every shelf and the mantel were diverse assortments of plaques, masks, pieces of art and other memorabilia she guessed to have come from his travels.

Those that were within her reach she studied closely—a limestone burial jar, an ancient elephant tusk, a copper fish she guessed to be of Mayan design. Then she sat back and scanned the room again, marveling that one man could have amassed such an exotic collection.

By contrast, the small television, which rested atop the counter separating living room from kitchen, seemed mundane. It was, she realized, the source of the voices she’d heard when she first crossed the deck. But there was nothing mundane—or so the indoctrination went—about the program that was on.

Just then Michael reappeared wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He looked freshly showered and shaven, and his hair was damp but combed. He looked wonderful.

“That was fast,” she breathed. “I always thought it took at least fifteen minutes for a man to shave, but I haven’t been here more than five.”

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting even that long. If I’d known you were coming…” He grew hesitant. “I saw both cars in the driveway and thought you’d be busy at least till tonight.”

“Blake had to be back in Boston last night. I would have come by sooner, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be free.”

Her suggestion was subtle but too obvious to ignore. “I did go out last night, but it was an early evening.” He’d tried; oh, yes, he’d tried. But no other woman seemed to measure up to the one before him now.

Danica cast a glance at the television, which was still on. “It looks like I’ve disturbed you anyway.”

“Are you kidding?” Padding barefoot across the stone floor, he flipped off the set. “I turn this on more out of habit than anything.”

“
Face the Nation
? Shame on you. No Sunday is complete without it.”

At her lightly mocking tone, he felt instant sympathy. “That’s how it is?”

“You bet. Nothing, and I do mean
nothing
, comes between my men and
Face the Nation
.”

“We’re not all like that,” Michael said, pushing aside the business section to sit on the sofa not far from her. Then he looked back down at the paper, gathered it and several nearby sections and tossed them onto another pile on the table. “Sorry about this. Living alone, I get carried away.”

“Don’t apologize. I love the way things look.”

“Now you
are
kidding.”

“Uh-uh. It’s refreshing.” How often she used that word to describe things to do with Michael! “In my house the paper never gets a chance to be scattered. Blake keeps everything in neat piles, and if something by chance does get out of order, Mrs. Hannah is right there to straighten it.” Another dig at Blake, and she felt quickly contrite. Yet she could neither apologize nor take the words back. Michael inspired an honesty in her, an impulsiveness she couldn’t deny. She was just going to have to be more careful. After all, she really didn’t want to malign Blake. He was her husband.

“Anyway,” she sighed, looking around her, “I love your house. I’ve never seen it before.”

“It’s not much different in design from yours.”

“No, but it looks lived in.”

“It looks messy, is what it does.”

She shook her head. There was so much to see here; by comparison, her own house seemed stark. “Lived in, and very happily so. These are all souvenirs of your escapades?”

“Yup.” When she rose from the chair and crossed the room to gently finger one of a pair of unusually shaped iron candlesticks that stood on the mantel, he explained that they were from Portugal and that he had been studying emigration patterns when he found them. When she moved on to examine a hand-carved Mexican lava ball, then a pair of Majorcan grinding rollers, he told of their acquisitions, as well.

What he really wanted was to learn more about her home life, her husband, the frustrations she felt. But she was so enthused about the collection of hats on the wall, the cluster of baskets in the corner, the bronze Japanese vase on the table, that he found himself wrapped up in telling her one story, then another and another.

“You lead such an exciting life,” she breathed, returning to sink down into the chair at last. Her face was glowing, as though for that little bit of time she had lived the excitement with him.

He knew then that that was what he wanted her to do, though he knew that life with her would be exciting in very different kinds of ways.

“It looks like you’ve been all around the world!” she exclaimed.

“Almost. There are still some places I’d like to see.” He paused. “You must have done your own share of traveling.”

She shrugged. “Some, but to none of the out-of-the-way places you’ve been.”

“You didn’t travel with your parents?”

“Only to vacation spots—the Caribbean, Hawaii, Hilton Head.” Once a year, the mandatory family jaunt. “When it came to the truly exotic places, they went alone.”

“Why? Surely it would have been educational for you.”

“You’d think so,” she mused, “but they kept me involved in other activities and assumed I wouldn’t mind.”

“What other activities?”

“School.” She didn’t yet want to go into her tennis years, when every free minute had been spent on the court. She had failed her parents’ expectations there, and to a certain extent, she believed in that failure herself.

Her answer had been pat and was theoretically without argument, yet Michael wasn’t ready to let the subject of her past drop. “Do you travel much with your husband?”

Her eyes clouded then. “I used to. He’d take me on business trips—in this country and abroad—and we’d have a few days to ourselves when the business was done. Lately, though, he’s been so busy that it’s just as well he goes alone.”

“He doesn’t have time for you,” Michael stated quietly.