Heroes are My Weakness (44 page)

“I can! If they’re both the same!”

Annie had been crystal clear when she’d said he had too much baggage. But he didn’t feel that way now. The smoldering ruins of the house represented everything he was leaving behind. Everything that kept him from seeing into his own heart and being the man he wanted to be. He loved Annie Hewitt from the depths of his soul.

Annie had told Livia she loved him? What exactly had she said? Because he had a sinking feeling she didn’t mean the same thing he meant.

Reality had slapped him in the face the same day he’d found Regan’s beach glass. When Livia had demanded he tell her what she called a “free secret,” the words had slipped out of him as freely as his breath. He felt as if he’d loved Annie since he was sixteen—and maybe he had.

“You have too much baggage.”

Annie’s words had turned him into a coward. He had a dismal track record with women, and for all her cracks about his money, she didn’t want any of it. If she ever found out he was the one who’d bought that damned mermaid chair, she’d never forgive him. All he could give her was his heart—something she’d made clear she didn’t want.

But he wasn’t such a coward that he wouldn’t put up a fight. He’d planned to give her until the last day to cool off from their argument at the wharf. He’d intended to make the best breakfast of his life and take it to her on the
Lucky Charm
this morning. Somehow, he’d figured out he could convince her his baggage was a thing of the past—that he was free to love her, whether or not she could love him in return. But the fire had screwed everything up.

He needed a clear brain. A few hours’ sleep. Definitely a shower. But he didn’t have time for any of that. Annie had to feel his urgency as powerfully as he did. It was the only way he could convince her not to give up on him.

Good luck with that. You’ve already blown it.

His lack of sleep had gotten the best of him. Now he was hearing her puppet Scamp. He turned his back on the ruins of Harp House, headed for his car, and raced down to the cottage.

She was already gone. She’d handed Livia over and sped toward town as if her life depended on getting away from him. Anxiety gnawed at the pit of his stomach as he took off after her.

The Suburban was no match for his Range Rover, and he caught up with her quickly. He honked, but she didn’t stop. He kept honking. She had to hear, but—not only didn’t she stop—she sped up.

I told you,
the damned puppet said.
You’re too late.

Like hell I am!
They were on an island, and she’d reach town soon. All he had to do was be patient and follow her. But he didn’t want to be patient. He wanted her now, and if she couldn’t understand how serious he was, he’d show her.

He bumped the rear end of the Suburban. Not hard enough to make her swerve. Just enough so she knew he meant business. Apparently so did she because she kept driving. The Suburban was a piece of crap with so many dents another couple wouldn’t matter, but the same couldn’t be said for his Range Rover. He didn’t care. He bumped her again. And again. Finally, the Suburban’s only surviving brake light flared on.

The car lurched to a stop, the door flew open, and she threw herself out. He jumped out, too, only to hear her scream,
“I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Fine!” he shouted back. “I’ll do the talking. I love you, and by damn I’m not ashamed of it, and you may not have as much baggage as I do, but don’t pretend you don’t have some with all those losers you attached yourself to.”

“Only two!”

“And only two for me, so we’re even!”

“Not even close!” They were fifteen feet apart and she was still screaming. “My two were self-centered assholes! Yours were homicidal nutcases!”

“Kenley wasn’t homicidal!”

“Close enough. And all I did after my breakups was watch
Big Bang
reruns and gain five pounds! That’s not the same as doing penance for the
rest of your life
.”

“Not anymore!” He was shouting as loud as she, and he hadn’t moved, either. His brain was jumbled. His throat raw. Every part of his body ached. She, on the other hand—with her electrified hair and blazing eyes—looked like a vengeful goddess at the height of her powers.

He stalked toward her. “I want a life with you, Annie. I want to make love with you until you can’t walk. And have kids with you. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out, but I’m not exactly used to having love feel good.” He poked his finger in the rough direction of her face. “You talked about being a romantic. Romance is nothing! It’s a tiny word that doesn’t come close to what I feel for you. And I know sooner or later you’re going to find out about that damned chair, but that’s the way I do things! And from now on—”

“Chair?”

Shit.
Now he was looking into both flaring nostrils and flaming hazel demon eyes.

“
You’re
the one who bought the chair!” she exclaimed.

He couldn’t show any weakness. “Who the hell else loves you enough to buy that ugly piece of crap?”

Her mouth was open again, and he was so wrung out that even his hair hurt, but he kept at her. “The job offer I have for you is
real.
I started a new book—one you’ll actually like—but I don’t want to talk about that now. I want to talk about us making a life together, and my getting a chance to show you that what I feel is bright and strong without any shadows hanging around. That’s what I want to show you.”

He yearned to tell her about Diggity. And tell her again that he wanted kids with her, in case she’d missed it the first time. He wanted to kiss her until she was dizzy. Make love with her until she couldn’t think straight. He would have done all that by now except she sat down. Right in the middle of the muddy road. As if her legs were useless. That put an end to his tirade as nothing else could have.

He went to her. Knelt next to her. A watery beam of sunlight found its way through the trees and played hide-and-seek with her cheekbones. The honey brown snarl of curls he loved so much had launched a full-out skirmish around her face—the most beautiful face he’d ever seen, brimming with life, animated with all the emotions that made up who she was.

“You okay?” he asked.

She didn’t respond, and Annie without words scared him, so he plunged back in. “I want a life with you. I can’t imagine a life with anyone else. Will you at least think about it?”

She nodded, but it was a wobbly nod, and she didn’t look certain about it. If he backed off, he might lose her forever, so he told her about Diggity and how he wanted her to illustrate the book he was writing for kids instead of adults, and how much his new readers would love her quirky sketches. He sat with her in the middle of the muddy road and told her love had always meant catastrophe to him and that was why it had taken him so long to label what he felt for her—the ease, the connection, the tenderness. He’d almost choked on that last word, not because he didn’t mean every syllable, but because—even for a writer—saying a word like
tenderness
out loud made him feel like he should turn in his man card. But she had her eyes glued to his face, so he said it again and then followed up by telling her how beautiful she looked when he was inside her.

That definitely got her attention, so he introduced a little smut. Lowered his voice. Whispered in her ear. Told her what he wanted to do to her. What he wanted her to do to him. Her curls tickled his lips, her skin flushed, and his jeans got way too tight, but he felt like a guy again, a guy hopelessly at the mercy of this woman who played with puppets and helped mute little girls talk again and rescued him from his own hopelessness. This quirky, sexy, utterly sane woman.

He touched her face. “I think I’ve loved you since I was sixteen.”

She cocked her head, as if she were waiting for something.

“I’m sure of it,” he said more firmly, even though he wasn’t sure at all. Who could look back on their teenage years and be clear about anything? But she wanted something more from him, and he had to give it to her, even if he had no idea what it was.

Out of nowhere, he heard a puppet’s voice.
Kiss her, you dumbass.

There was nothing he yearned to do more, but he reeked of smoke, his face was coated with oily soot, and his hands were filthy.

Just do it.

And so he did. He tunneled his dirty hands through her hair and kissed her breathless. Her neck, her eyes, the corners of her mouth. He kissed her lips as if his life depended on it. Kissed their future into her. All they could have and all they could be. The soft sounds they made together became a poem to his ears.

Her hands clasped his shoulders, not pushing him away, drawing him closer. He lost himself in her. Found himself.

When their kiss finally ended, he kept his grubby hands cupped around her now equally grubby cheeks. Soot smudged the tip of her nose. Her lips were swollen from their kiss. Her eyes shimmered.

“Free secret,” she whispered.

His stomach twisted into its tightest knot. Slowly he released his breath. “Make it good.”

She pressed her lips to his ears and whispered her secret.

It was good. Really good. In fact, it couldn’t have been better.

Epilogue

T
HE SUMMER SUN SKIPPED OVER
the crests of the waves and bounced off the masts of a pair of sailboats tacking into the wind. Cobalt blue Adirondack chairs sat on the garden patio, which had been positioned well in front of the old farmhouse to afford the best view of the distant ocean. Roses, delphinium, sweet peas, and nasturtium bloomed in the garden nearby, and a curving path led from the stone patio back across the meadow to the farmhouse, which was twice as big as it had once been. A grove of trees sheltered a small guesthouse off to the left where an ugly mermaid chair rested on the postage stamp porch.

On the garden patio, a market umbrella, folded against the early-afternoon breeze, rose from the center of a long wooden table large enough to accommodate a big family. An old stone gargoyle with a Knicks cap perched crookedly on its head had once guarded a house at the other end of the island. Now it crouched protectively near a clay pot overflowing with geraniums. The detritus of a Maine summer lay all around: a soccer ball, a pink riding toy, abandoned swim goggles, bubble wands, and waterlogged sidewalk chalk.

A boy with straight dark hair and a scowl sat cross-legged between two of the Adirondack chairs talking to Scamp, who was peering at him over the arm of one chair. “And . . .” the boy said, “. . . that’s why I stomped my feet. Because he made me very,
very
mad.”

The puppet shook her yarn curls. “Horrors! Tell me exactly what he did again.”

The boy—whose name was Charlie Harp—impatiently shoved his dark hair off his forehead and puffed up his cheeks in outrage. “He won’t let me drive the truck!”

Scamp pressed her cloth hand to her forehead. “That
blackguard
!”

A long-suffering sigh came from the next chair. Scamp and Charlie ignored it.

“Then . . .” Charlie added. “He got mad at me just because I took my turbo car away from my sister. It was
mine
.”

“In
sane
!” Scamp made a dismissive gesture toward the curly-haired toddler napping on an old quilt in the grass. “Just because you haven’t played with that car for years is absolutely no reason for her to have it. Your sister is nothing but a bother. She doesn’t even like you.”

“Well . . .” Charlie frowned. “She kind of likes me.”

“Does not.”

“She does! She laughs when I make funny faces and when I play with her and make noises, she goes crazy.”

“Très intéressant,
” said Scamp, who still had a thing for languages.

“Sometimes she throws her food on the floor, and that’s pretty funny.”

“Hmmm . . . Perhaps . . .” Scamp tapped her cheek. “No, forget I said anything.”

“Tell me.”

“Well . . .” The puppet tapped her other cheek. “I, Scamp, am thinking that your turbo car is really a baby toy, and if anybody saw you playing with it, they might think you yourself are a—”

“They won’t think nothing because I’m giving that baby toy to her!”

Scamp regarded him with openmouthed astonishment. “I should have thought of that. Now, I believe I shall compose a song to—”

“No song!”

“Very well.” Scamp sniffed, deeply offended. “If you’re going to be like
that
I’m going to tell you what Dilly said. She said you can’t be a real superhero until you learn how to be nice to little kids.
That
is what she said.”

Charlie didn’t have a good counterargument, so he picked at the bandage on his big toe and returned to his prime grievance. “I’m an island kid.”

“Tragically, only in the summer,” Scamp said. “The rest of the time you’re a New York City kid.”

“Summer counts! It still makes me an island kid, and island kids get to drive.”

“When they’re
ten.
” This voice, deep and assertive, came from Leo, who was Charlie’s second favorite of the puppets—a lot more interesting than boring old Peter; or stupid, silly Crumpet; or Dilly—who was always reminding him to brush his teeth and stuff.

Leo peered at Charlie over the arm of the next chair. “Island kids have to be at least ten to drive. You,
compadre,
are six.”

“I’ll be ten soon.”

“Not that soon, thank G—goodness.”

Charlie glared at the puppet. “I’m really mad.”

“Sure you are. Super mad.” Leo circled his head one way and then the other. “I’ve got an idea.”

“What?”

“Tell him how mad you are. Then look really pitiful and ask him to take you Boogie-boarding. If you look pitiful enough, I bet he’ll feel so bad that he’ll take you.”

Charlie wasn’t born yesterday. He looked past Leo to the man holding him. “Really! Can we go right now?”

His father set Leo aside and shrugged. “The waves look good. Why not? Get your stuff.”