All I Want Is You (11 page)

Christy had already lost so much—­love was one more thing he didn't want to see her be afraid of. And yet . . . he understood the fear. ­People walked around acting strong all the time, but deep inside, most ­people had sensitivities, tender spots. Some more than others, but there wasn't anyone who couldn't get hurt by love.

Of course, often in life, even love that was entirely returned and requited could still get messed up. So maybe it was none of his concern what Christy and Jack felt for each other. Maybe he should just trust them to take care of their own relationship, their own feelings. He only knew he wanted her to be happy, and to be open to it, brave enough to . . . understand what it was worth. Age and experience had taught him a lot about the value of love.

Just then, the male nurse, Ron, who he'd grown surprisingly fond of, stuck his head in the room. “Did you have a good visit with your granddaughter, Charlie?”

He nodded, grinned. “Better than good.”

Ron gave him a smile. “Glad to hear it. She seemed like a sweetheart.” With that, Ron dimmed the room's lights. It was a hint, a gentle reminder that Charlie was old and should go to bed. “Goodnight then.”

He'd started to leave the room when Charlie stopped him by saying, “Ron? How's Mrs. Waters today?”

Ron just shook his head and chuckled silently. “Same as every day. But it's sweet of you to ask.”

Charlie nodded slightly. “It's just that I know she's alone in the world and—­”

“And you like her to know somebody cares,” Ron finished for him. Yep, all the nurses had heard his reasons for asking, several times over now. And he knew each time he asked that the answer would likely be the same. But he thought it was important to keep asking anyway. He thought maybe, on some level, Mrs. Waters could feel his concern.

“Maybe tomorrow I'll take the walker out for a spin, take myself down to her room and sit with her awhile.” He figured it was good exercise, a distance he could reasonably travel without his wheelchair, and he told himself she liked his company even if she couldn't let him know. He just thought it was valuable for her to have visitors. In case it was like ­people said—­in case she was really more aware than anyone could tell.

“You're a good egg, Charlie,” Ron said. “Goodnight.”

It was dark out now, Charlie realized, another night fallen. He felt the darkness more now in his old age—­the awareness that one more day of life lay in the past. Sometimes that left him melancholy, but tonight he let it slide off him; having Christy here had him feeling upbeat, cheerful. There was more to look forward to while she was here—­daily visits, maybe some outings, maybe the chance to feel like he was still really living, soaking up life, contributing to the big tapestry of it all even if only in some tiny way just by virtue of saying hello to a waitress or dropping a crumb of food on the beach for a seagull.

Of course, he knew in his heart that the melancholy he sometimes suffered was about more than age or the loss of mobility. He knew it was the emptiness of regret, of decisions he wished he'd made differently long, long ago.

It wasn't that he hadn't had a good life—­he had. And he supposed things unfolded exactly the way they were supposed to, so maybe regrets were silly. But he still yearned to do some things over. He thought he could have done things better, could have made someone he cared about happy. Susan. Dear, sweet, frightened Susan.

If he'd made different choices back then, the dark of night would summon better ­memories—or at least more of the really great ones. And instead, he only had a few all-­too-­brief recollections of Susan to fall back on. And so he often played them over and over in his head because they were all he had of her.

They'd graduated together from Destiny High in 1953. And by Christmas that same year she'd married Donald King, a saggy-­bellied farmer in overalls who chewed tobacco and was more than twice her age. Funny how Charlie had known her his whole life, but he'd never noticed how pretty she was—­never taken in the soft, delicate feeling her very presence put in the air—­until his father was hired to build a barn for Donald King in the summer of 1954.

Charlie had been sitting in the sparsely furnished living room of the King farmhouse with his father and Mr. King, talking over the plans for the barn, and King had hollered, “Susan, get us some cold Coca-­Colas from the icebox.”

A minute later, she'd come floating into the room as gently as a girl walking on air—­only her mood had felt heavy, hardened. She didn't smile and her eyes held no light. Even so, that was the moment when he'd first noticed her beauty. Long, dark hair pulled back from her face, skin soft and pale as the calla lilies in his mother's flower bed. She'd worn a simple dress of pink calico, but it drew in at the waist and left him taking in her shape in a way he'd never done in school.

“Cold Coca-­Colas for ya,” she said, handing them to each man. When her fingers brushed his as he took the small bottle from her hand, the sensation snaked right up his arm, same as when he'd been dancing with Della Mae Turner at the younger girl's senior prom last month. Their eyes met, hers a soft shade of blue he was noting for the first time, but she looked away fast, kept her expression grim and sullen.

“Ya'll know my bride, Susan?” King asked.

“Believe we do,” Charlie's dad answered.

And Charlie added, “Me and Susan were in the same class—­graduated together last year.”

“Mmm,” King said, his expression nearly as grim as Susan's as he gave his head a quick tilt back. And Charlie felt in the air the weight he'd just accidentally created. It had been easier to act like there wasn't anything wrong with a man his father's age being married to someone
his
age before he'd pointed out exactly how young she was.

“Well then, start next Monday?” King asked, shifting the focus to Charlie's father.

But
Charlie's
attention returned to the girl in the pink dress who stood quietly in one corner now like a quiet little animal, on edge, on guard, but trying to blend in and look invisible. He fought the urge to let his gaze drift onto her—­and he lost, letting his eyes go there even though it felt risky somehow. It made sense that he'd want to look at a pretty girl. But it felt forbidden knowing she was another man's wife.

Though King never noticed—­he was leaning over now, studying a sheet of paper Charlie's dad had given him with a pencil-­scrawled estimate on it. And at first Susan looked away, but he kept his eyes on her anyhow—­too bold but feeling daring, somehow driven. And to his surprise, slowly but surely she dragged her own gaze up from the floor and onto him, finally meeting his.

And it was like electricity being zapped through his veins. Just from that. Just from her eyes on his.

Why did you marry him? Why did you marry an old man?
He couldn't fathom it. And hell, it wasn't like the man was a looker—­he was dirty, paunchy, smelly, and had no personality to speak of. And that's when it hit Charlie—­she slept with him. They shared a bed. He couldn't imagine that made her happy—­he couldn't imagine it was anything but a torture.

And he began to feel bad, wondering if she could read his thoughts, see them in his eyes—­and so he finally looked away, feeling sad for her. Feeling sad for
himself
that she was married. Wishing he'd noticed back in school how pretty she was. Wishing he'd dated her instead of Della Mae, who he'd seen on and off for the past two years but never really fallen for.

On the way home, he asked his father, “Why do you suppose a girl my age would marry Mr. King?”

His father had shifted the gears on their old truck, making it lurch slightly as he said, “Between you and me, son, I don't think she had a choice. Her family doesn't have much, Charlie, and King has more money than you'd think by lookin'. Talk at the General Mercantile is that her daddy pushed her into it, because King can take care of her—­and of her folks and brothers and sisters, too, if need be.”

“Seems wrong,” Charlie said as something in his heart withered.

His father nodded. “It
is
wrong. Have to be blind not to see how miserable that poor girl is. But . . . not a lot to be done about it.”

Charlie couldn't argue that, but it had left him frustrated to the point of anger on Susan's behalf. And he couldn't stop thinking how wrong
all
of it was—­not just her being married to a much older man she didn't want, but also the fact that she'd never know the simple joys of being able to kiss a boy she liked, fall in love, experience all that the way a person was supposed to.

“You takin' Della Mae to the Ambassador this weekend?” his father asked. “Hear
How to Marry a Millionaire
is finally showin'.”

And that's when it hit him that
he
hadn't fallen in love yet either—­but at least he could, at least he would, someday. Only not with Della Mae. “Nah, I think we're breakin' up.”

His father let out a soft laugh. “Again?”

But Charlie gave a solemn nod. “And probably for good this time.”

That decision had changed Charlie's life. For the better. But . . . even now, he wished the choices he'd made soon after had been different.

Though he'd been beating himself up about that for sixty years, and it never did any good. And right now, as he got into bed and turned out the bedside lamp, he tried to think of things that made him happy and would let him rest well. He thought of Christy and her jewelry and how much his late wife would have enjoyed seeing it. He felt thankful all over again for his granddaughter's visit. He said a prayer that his wife and his son and daughter-­in-­law were in a better place. And he thought of Susan's eyes connecting with his that summer day in 1954 and how it had brought him alive, truly alive, for the first real time, and how nothing had ever been the same after that.

C
HRISTY
knew there was a lot she could be sad about. Lack of money, an uncertain future, her grandpa's well-­being, and a host of other things that stemmed from that list. Perhaps less important—­but seeming quite pressing right now—­was the fact that Jack hadn't made one single, solitary move on her last night in their room at the Happy Crab.

She'd been going crazy inside as they'd said goodnight, lain down in their separate beds, and turned out the lamps. She'd watched a shadow of light that shone in from the dock out back, wondering if he would suddenly ease beneath the sheets that covered her, ready to give her what she wanted from him so badly. But he didn't.

And then she'd tossed and turned, recognizing the faint, salty scent of the sea that she could smell even indoors here, wondering if she should follow her instincts and be the one who made a move, climbing into bed next to
him
. But
she
didn't do it, either.

And she'd awakened this morning thoroughly frustrated—­but happier than she could understand just to see his sexy, scruffy, smiling face as he told her he'd gotten up early and walked to a nearby bakery to get some breakfast. They'd eaten jelly donuts at a picnic table on the dock a little while later, overlooking the water, and Christy couldn't remember ever having a better breakfast in her entire life.

So yes, there were things to be unhappy about, worried about—­and some of those things were pretty big. Yet as she stepped onto the pale sand of Coral Cove Beach, the air punctuated with the cawing of seagulls in the distance, she couldn't help feeling that simple sense of joy that had eluded her for so long now.

She glanced over at Jack next to her with a smile. “I forgot how much I love the beach. Something about it just . . . soothes my soul, I guess.” Despite the tropical rays of the sun shining down on them from a cloudless blue sky, the sand remained cool beneath her feet and the rush of the surf beckoned.

“There's something extra peaceful here, isn't there?” he said.

And she knew what he meant. He wasn't talking about just the beach itself; he was talking about the whole little town.

“I've always felt better just being here,” she admitted. “I'm glad I got the chance to come back.” And with that, she reached out and boldly took his hand, squeezing it in hers—­a small thank you.

Which also sent an unexpectedly large bolt of desire shooting into her heart. And to other places, too.

They looked at each other and she was pretty sure he felt it, as well—­all of it.

But that was when he turned his gaze back ahead, toward the ocean, and said, “Come on, Alice—­let's find a spot to spread out our blanket.” And he let go of her hand to trudge slightly ahead of her through the soft sand.

Only . . . the odd thing was that her sense of happiness wasn't dampened by his pulling away from her.

Because there were suddenly things to look forward to. Seeing her grandpa more. Trying to sell her jewelry tonight at the Sunset Celebration.

And, she realized, just being with Jack, spending time with him. Even if nothing else happened. Even if this was all there was.

And for the first time in her life, she understood that caring about someone wasn't about what you could get back from them. It was just about . . . caring.

 

“The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might . . .”

Lewis Carroll,
Through the Looking Glass

Chapter 10

J
ACK
TRIED
to take in the sights and sounds on Coral Cove Beach.

Cute little kids played in the surf, and further out the occasional pelican could be seen swooping strategically, diving for fish.

“Look, he got one!” Christy said next to him as he attempted to focus on the pelican's flapping wings and the fish he held trapped in his beak now.

He tried to let the sound of the tide flowing in and out lull him into relaxation. And he worked to let the hot Florida sun make him forget all his worries.

But there were problems.

For one thing, Christy was driving him crazy in an adorably sexy pink bikini. She wasn't
doing
anything to drive him crazy in it—­just wearing it. But that was enough. The perfect breasts he hadn't quite gotten to taste swelled provocatively from perfect pink triangles, and her ass—­it turned out—­was round and gorgeous. Like he needed to add
that
into the mix here. Like he hadn't been frustrated enough already.

Once again he berated himself for the notion that coming to the beach with her was some simple, carefree venture. What had he been thinking? She was hot and he wanted her and it was all he could do by this time not to just grab her and start kissing her again. He'd been half hard since the moment he'd first seen her in that cute little bikini—­and sometimes
more
than half.

It was tricky as hell to lie next to her and act normal when he wanted to be all over her. He found himself sneaking glances whenever he could get away with it. Because he couldn't help himself. Because if he couldn't touch, at least he could look.

Last night he'd miraculously managed to keep his hands to himself, but today he felt doubly tortured by having succeeded. Even the coconut scent of her Coppertone was turning him on. Thank God his trunks were roomy.

But maybe it was those other problems that were actually keeping him from kissing her.

Like the conversation that had taken place in her grandpa's room last night. Something about it had felt so . . . real and honest. He'd thought he and Christy had already
done
real and honest, but this had gone deeper. She'd revealed fears he'd not known about before. Fears that had made her seem so unguarded and trusting that he'd suffered the urge to . . . take care of her a little. Damn. How the hell had
that
happened? Especially given that he was officially out of the taking-­care-­of-­needy-­women business.

When he'd encouraged her to go for what she wanted and not be afraid, he'd been thinking about his business. The simplicity of online investment advising done with a personal touch had seemed a bold idea at the time—­at least to industry colleagues who thought investment advising was as much about power lunches and glad-­handing as anything else. It had taken guts. Especially for someone as young and inexperienced as he'd been at the time.

He remembered that feeling of:
What if this fails? What if I crash and burn?
And what he understood now was that most
everyone
got scared at some point. And that life was a constant battle with putting yourself out there. Success bred confidence, but there were always new challenges, times you had to call upon your courage.

And he'd wanted to tell her all of that and more—­but then he'd had to stop, pull back, because there was so much else he
hadn't
told her.

After which he couldn't deny the hypocrisy of advising her to put herself out there—­when he was doing the exact opposite with her. Shit.

But what would she think to find out he'd kept all this from her? And there was no rulebook for how soon you shared your deepest wounds with someone—­the idea of talking about his divorce, getting into all the ugly whys and hows . . . hell, it sounded like torture. Why would he want to put himself through that?

She told you her worst pains, her greatest weaknesses. She trusted you that much.

But he focused closely on the brightly colored sail of a small sailboat drifting peacefully across the horizon in the distance—­and neatly shoved those thoughts aside.
You never asked her to open up to you—­that was
her
choice.
And it might be easy to fall prey to Christy's charms, but it didn't change what she was looking for or the problems she was trying to solve.

So go back to taking this for what it is. A trip to the beach. A girl you enjoy being with. Time to unwind, relax. Just have a good time.

In fact, quit sharing your damn deep thoughts on courage and life and risk-­taking.
Especially since, now that he'd examined it, maybe he wasn't such a great authority on that after all.

Just be her friend here. Maybe more—­maybe her lover. But that's all.
This wasn't a lifelong relationship they were building—­this would be over soon, as soon as she found her rich guy to support her and Grandpa Charlie.

That could be you. You have what she needs.

You could take away all her troubles, make her happy.

And maybe she would make
you
happy, too.

But no, no, no—­what the hell was he thinking? He wouldn't fall for someone who was after money more than love—­that simple. No matter how amazing she might be in every other way.

C
HRISTY
felt like someone masquerading as an artist as she sat behind the folding table Reece Donovan had so kindly loaned her, her jewelry spread out before her in felt-­lined trays. When she and Jack had been setting up on the Coral Cove pier, attaching the little price tags she'd made this afternoon, she'd been excited, hopeful, ready for this. But now that she was just sitting here in a folding lawn chair—­also on loan from Reece—­waiting for something to happen, it wasn't as easy.

All around her on the old wooden pier sat picturesque oil paintings of beach scenes and stained glass sun catchers and delicate water color creations—­made by ­people who were clearly more talented than her. She couldn't help thinking that most of the artists here had created something from
nothing
, whereas all she'd done was taken pieces of old jewelry and mixed them up a little.

Still, she tried to enjoy the atmosphere. A man in a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt painted beach umbrellas on pieces of tile to her left, and to her right an elderly woman dipped homemade ice cream into sugar cones from a metal pushcart. Directly across from her, a thirty-­something woman who'd introduced herself as Tamra sold the stained glass pieces Christy had been admiring. Music played from a loudspeaker somewhere—­currently Jason Mraz's “I'm Yours”—­and on the beach in the distance, colorful kites darted about in the evening air, one shaped like a fish catching her eye as it whirled in circles beneath the path of passing seagulls.

Just then, she flinched at the sight of a dragon-­like figure ambling down the pier—­on a pink leash held by Reece. Christy was still trying to adjust the idea of Fifi as a pet, but she smiled up at Reece anyway, who pulled off the dark, handsome beach bum look with flair.

After Jack and Reece exchanged greetings, Reece asked, “How are the chairs and tables working out for you?”

“Perfect,” Christy said. “Thanks again for the loan—­it's a big help.”

“Fifi wanted to go out for a walk,” he claimed with a wink, “so we thought we'd come down and say hi.”

“Well, it's nice to see a friendly face,” she ad­mitted.

But Reece just shrugged. “
Everybody
here is friendly.” And she realized that was true. Well, except maybe for Abner, but she and Jack had had dinner at the Hungry Fisherman again and this time even he had mustered a hello. Albeit while wearing a suede cowboy hat with khakis.

Just then, Reece glanced over the pier's railing down to the beach below. “Almost time for Fletcher's show. Did you happen to catch it last night?”

She and Jack both turned to look, but Christy couldn't quite make out what she was observing other than a lean, lanky man with a brown pony­tail assembling what struck her as a portable clothesline.

“Uh, no,” Jack said, appearing just as baffled. “What's he do? Hang his sheets out to dry?”

Reece laughed. “No, it's a little more entertaining than that. He's a tightrope walker. Does it here every night. Be sure to watch—­he's a pretty cool dude.” And with that the owner of the Happy Crab tugged lightly on Fifi's leash and together they toddled onward.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, the sky began to blaze pink and gold in the distance. And whereas the foot traffic on the pier had been light so far, now more evening shoppers arrived.

A woman in a sundress stopped to check out Christy's jewelry, but she moved on fairly quickly—­and despite herself, Christy's heart sank a little as the lady walked away. A minute later, what appeared to be a mother and teenage daughter on vacation showed a bit of interest, but then shifted their attention to the ice cream woman and her array of flavors. And after another ­couple of such occurrences, Christy turned to Jack, saying quietly, “I knew it. My stuff isn't beachy enough—­it doesn't fit here. It's not the kind of thing you want to bring home from vacation.”

Yet he merely gave her a scolding look. “Would you relax? It's only been a little while. And whatever happens, at least you're doing what we talked about last night, putting yourself out there.” Though she couldn't help noticing that for a guy who always seemed totally at ease, he'd stiffened a bit as he'd said that last part—­and she had no idea why.

But a second later it didn't matter, at all, because that was when he reached out to rest his hand on her knee beneath the folding table as he said, “You should be proud of yourself. I am.” And the touch tingled all through her.

Jack meant it. He wasn't entirely certain it was wise to be squeezing her bare knee, all smooth and freshly tanned, but he
was
proud of her. Now that he understood her fears, he also knew that sitting here with her jewelry laid in front of her wasn't as easy as it probably looked to the ­people on the other side of the table.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

And oh shit, I want to kiss her. And that's bad. Even if, at the very same time, it feels so, so good.

“Come one, come all, to the greatest show on earth—­or at least on Coral Cove Beach!”

Jack flinched—­pulling his hand away and sitting up straighter—­at the loud voice suddenly echoing from behind him. But that was probably wise. He looked over his shoulder to see the pony­tailed man speaking through a small megaphone.

“Prepare to be stunned and amazed as I, Fletcher McCloud, perform amazing feats of skill and daring from atop the high-­wire.” With that, he motioned toward what Jack had previously thought a clothesline, then paused to look at it himself. “Okay, so it's more of a low wire,” the man added. “But it's the beach, man, so it's the best I can do.”

Jack could tell it was a shtick—­the guy probably said the same words every single night—­but a bunch of kids laughed at the joke and he saw a few of the vacationing adults smile, as well.

Fletcher McCloud continued gathering an audience until the bulk of the evening shoppers had circled around his tightrope on the sand, and most of the vendors watched from the pier despite the fact, Jack supposed, that most had probably seen his act many times before. He caught sight of Reece and Fifi at the edge of the crowd on the beach.

“Are you ready to be stunned and amazed?” Fletcher asked the group. Then he dropped to one knee in the sand, playfully addressing a little boy. “Are
you
ready to be stunned and amazed?
Are
you?” The child nodded enthusiastically and Jack could already see that the guy had an engaging demeanor that worked with his act. He looked like a throwback to the seventies with his long hair and short beard, but his friendliness made him unintimidating.

A few seconds later, he climbed an easel ladder he'd opened in the sand, and stepped, barefoot, onto the thin, taut rope. The crowd oohed and aahed as he balanced there and then began to walk, taking slow, careful steps with his arms held out to each side. Jack couldn't help being impressed—­after all, you saw this kind of thing at the circus, but not usually at the beach, and not usually so close-­up. He watched the other man's toes bend downward to hug the cord he walked on.

“That's really cool,” Christy whispered next to him as they watched the guy walk from one end of the rope to the other.

“Of course, because I don't have a high-­wire,” Fletcher then said to the crowd, “I realize I might need to do a little more to stun and amaze you. Which is why I need someone to toss me those bowling pins—­one at a time please.” He pointed to the sand where the pins lay among a pile of props. “That's right! I'm going to juggle while I walk on this tightrope! Feel free to make sounds of awe.”

The spectators tittered with laughter, some of them obliging him with “sounds of awe”—­and then they watched Fletcher juggle the pins, after which he then upped the stakes to juggling three knives! Throughout the act, Jack and Christy exchanged glances, both clearly impressed.

“For my final act, to make
sure
you leave here stunned and amazed, I'm going to juggle fire!” The audience let out a collective gasp, to which Fletcher responded by laughing and saying, “Nah, I'm just kidding,” producing one more chuckle from the crowd.

“Except,” he said slowly, holding up one finger while still balanced on the rope, “what if I'm not? What if I'm going to take those very torches lying there in the sand”—­he pointed—­“and light them and juggle them? Sir, would you be so kind as to hand those torches up to me?”