Rekindled (21 page)

He woke up earlier than usual that day, packed a lunch and vanished, leaving Anne with the solitude she wanted. Strange, though, between work, books, and other incidental activities, she kept thinking about him.

She was living with the guy. Well, not in that sense. Still, her friends would be stunned if they knew, her family appalled. But she was comfortable here, physically and emotionally. This world was divorced from that of New York. Same with Mitch. So, she didn’t know his last name. The anonymity here felt right. With Wednesday morning came the awareness that her vacation was coming to an end. By Friday afternoon she would be heading back to the city. Thinking about it over breakfast coffee, she felt a pang of disappointment. All things considered, the vacation had been a good one. She would miss this country when she had to leave it behind.

Determined to make the most of the remaining days, she spent more time in the woods than ever, reveling in the beauty of the flora, the freedom of the fauna, and the luxury of time itself It was past noon when she returned to the cottage. Leaning against the trunk of an old apple tree in the backyard, bathed in its sweet scent, she tipped her head back and squinted at the sun through the fruit.

Inspiration struck then. Pulling her jacket off, she spread it on the soft grass. Then she began to pick apples, selecting only the fullest and deepest red of the lot to add to the growing pile. When the last of the best lay on her jacket, she calculated her own agility, studying the upper branches, taking stock of her options. Casting prudence aside, she braced a rubber soled foot against the trunk and carefully hoisted herself onto the first branch, bringing a whole new batch of fruit within reach. Balanced gingerly, she plucked one, then another, filling her free arm slowly.

Then she looked down and saw Mitch right at the foot of her tree. Startled, she lost her balance. Apples rained to the ground in a crimson storm. When she began to fall, she twisted sideways, grabbing back at the low branch to catch herself. Mitch caught her before she hit the ground, though not before she’d been scraped by the ragged bark and jutting offshoots.

“Why did you creep up on me that way?” she cried the minute her feet touched ground. He released her instantly, but not before she saw him flinch in pain. With a gasp of pain herself, she sank to the grass and rubbed the knee she had bumped on the branch.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She probed an aching elbow. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Are you always this clumsy?”

“I wasn’t clumsy. You frightened me, sneaking up like that.”

“Who did you think it was?” he asked dryly. “There aren’t a whole lot of other people around here, or hadn’t you noticed?” Frowning, he bent to gather apples that had fallen. “You should be more careful. You could break a leg that way.”

“Is that the voice of experience talking?”

His jaw was tight. “You could say that.” He tossed more apples onto her jacket. But he only used his right arm. The left hung idle.

“Is your arm all right?” she asked.

He glanced sharply up. “It’s fine.”

“You favor your right.”

“It’s fine. Can you walk?”

As she stood, testing the knee, he pulled her jacket around into a bundle, lifted it, and set off for the house.

She limped after him. By the time she reached the kitchen, he had put the apples beside the sink and disappeared. Grateful for the privacy, she collapsed into a chair, twisting her arm to see the scrapes on her elbow.

“Here, let me take a look at that.”

Before she could resist, Mitch deposited a bottle of disinfectant and a washcloth on the table, pulled up a chair, and took her arm. His touch was warm. When she tried to pull back, he held her arm more firmly. She winced at the antiseptic’s sting.

“THAT’S That’s enough!”

But he disagreed, repeatedly dabbing the dirt from the wound before kneeling and reaching for her knee.

“It’s all right,” she insisted.

He raised his head. His jaw was hard, his cheeks lean, but his eyes were surprisingly soft. Something stirred inside her.

“I’ll do my best not to hurt you, but it should be cleaned.” Very gently, he pushed the jeans past her knee. He applied disinfectant to the scrape there, blotting it to ease the sting.

Anne watched his shoulders flex as he worked, easy to see since his turtleneck fit him as snugly as each of his others had. This one was dark green. By contrast, the silvery-blonde of his hair was striking.

“There, now,” he murmured. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” With both hands cradling her leg, he surveyed his work. His tone was gentle, his touch even more so, and when he raised his eyes, they were the gentlest yet.

Her breath faltered.

He curved a hand to her neck. His thumb feather-touched the soft swell of her lips. For an instant he hesitated, and Anne’s breath held.

With eternal slowness, he raised his mouth to hers in a kiss that was little more than the tantalizingly light movement of his lips. When she made no protest, he deepened it, coaxing her mouth open with a gentleness that was worlds away from the first night’s force.

Anne was entranced. She couldn’t think, because this wasn’t part of her plan. But she could feel, and what she felt was overwhelming, the purest pleasure in a meeting of mouths, a touching of tongues.

Abruptly he pulled away, and sanity returned.

With a gasp she bolted from the chair and, ignoring a twinge in her knee, went to the far side of the room. Mitch stood, keeping his back to her as his breathing steadied. When he finally faced her, he had his passion in check.

By that time, she was trying to understand herself. Because she couldn’t, she lashed out at him. “You had no business doing that.”

His lips thinned. “I don’t seem to recall your objecting.”

“You didn’t give me much of a chance.”

He approached, studying her eyes, the heat on her cheeks, the tiny quiver of her lips. He frowned. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t want your pity!”

“Pity?” His features tensed. “I don’t deal in pity. I’ve seen enough of it in the past year to make me sick. No, Anne, if you can’t recognize a basic physical need, then you’re deluding yourself” His gaze narrowed. “Let’s just say I took my reward for playing nursemaid to a bad-tempered tomboy.”

She gasped in dismay, but he was on his way out of the room, which was probably just as well. That way she didn’t have to eat crow, because he was right. She would be lying if she refused to admit that she liked his kiss. She had been physically roused by a physical act.

But it had been only a kiss, only a kiss in the midst of bizarre circumstances. Come next week, the cottage, the kiss, the man would all be memory.

Gradually, she calmed. She began paring and slicing apples, piling skins on a piece of paper towel, turning the slices into a large glass pie plate and sprinkling them with cinnamon. Her supplies were dwindling, but she found adequate amounts of flour, butter, and sugar for the topping. Once the pie was in the oven, she spotted the unused apples. She washed each, polished it to a high gloss, and set it in a dish in the center of the table. It wasn’t until the dish was filled that she saw Mitch eyeing her from the doorway.

She was quickly defensive, “Is something wrong?”

“Just looking to see that you’re all right.”

“I am. I actually forgot…” She gestured toward her bruises with a sheepish grin.

“Glad to hear it.” With a dip of his head, he left the room and, soon after, the house.

Anne immersed herself in the last of her work, while the scent of baking apples filled the air. The pie was delicious, by her immodest estimate, a perfect finish for the early dinner she ate alone. Again, dusk found her reading before the fire.

“Anything good?”

She looked up and blushed. “Just a romance.” She was actually enjoying it without thinking of Jeff at every turn of the page. When Mitch set off for the kitchen, she called, “There’s apple pie on the counter. Help yourself” She grinned when he looked back and arched a brow. “Even bad-tempered tomboys have their merits.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“By the way, I put the peels out for the deer.”

“I wondered where they’d gone, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Do deer like apples?”

She learned the answer the next morning.

A warm hand shook her awake. “Come, Anne. There’s something you have to see!”

She was disoriented only until she saw Mitch in his robe at the window, waving her along. Rolling out of bed, she joined him there and followed his pointing finger. Under a patch of mist in the yard, by the base of the old apple tree, a young doe was munching at the remains that Mitch had tossed out. As they watched, the lithe animal stood on her hind legs to pick a fresh piece of fruit.

“Deer do like apples, wouldn’t you say?” His breath fanned her ear, its warmth enhancing the moment’s pleasure.

“That was beautiful,” she murmured when the doe finally moved off into the mist. “Thank you for waking me.” She turned to find him very, very close, and she thought about that kiss. All he did this time, though, was to give her arm a gentle squeeze, then leave.

By the time she showered and went to the kitchen, he was dressed. As he gazed absently out the window, the freshness of morning gentled his features.

“Coffee?” she offered quietly.

“Ummm.” He paused, slowly turning to look at her. “And a piece of that apple pie. My compliments to the baker.”

“Apple pie? For breakfast?”

“Sure. Call it danish, if the thought disturbs you. But it was good.”

She set to making coffee, somehow lost count and thought that maybe she added an extra scoop to the basket. She let it stand. “Swedish apple pie. My mother’s recipe. Easy and good. Actually, now that I think about it, my dad used to have it for breakfast, too.” Fearful that she’d spoken too personally, she quieted.

He must have wondered about that quiet, because he asked, “Is your father dead?”

“Oh, no. But it’s been years since I lived at home.”

“Do you live in the same place you did with your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Sometimes.” An understatement.

“Do you have children?”

“No.” Regretfully.

“You’re lucky.”

Frowning, she lowered the gas under the perking coffee. “Why do you say that? I’ve often thought it would have been easier to have part of him left.”

“It isn’t,” Mitch said tightly. “Take my word for it.”

Anne heard vehemence enough to suggest personal experience. She wanted to ask more, but it seemed against the rules. When he didn’t offer more himself, she figured he agreed. Anonymity was best. Definitely.

He finished his pie and coffee, tossed a playful, “Getting better!” over his shoulder in passing, and left her to add coffee to her own cuppa Joe. Soon after, he left the cottage.

Noise from the kitchen late that afternoon announced his return. Anne put the finishing touches on the piece she had translated, stacked her papers neatly, then paused. She sniffed the air. There was a new, vile smell.

“You went fishing!” she moaned from the kitchen door, staring in horror at the mess on the counter. She crinkled her nose in disgust.

“Now, now,” he chided, “it may smell bad at first, but once this bass is fried, the end result will be worth it. You’ll join me for dinner, won’t you?”

The invitation sounded sincere. He looked sincere issuing it. This was her last night at the cottage. She’d had a week’s worth of time, space, and her solitude.

Oil sizzled in the skillet. The sound oddly inviting.

“If you have enough,” she said graciously and was rewarded with a smile.

“Oh, I have enough. More than enough, and whatever we don’t eat tonight goes to waste. This is great bass. Trust me. I’m a champion fisherman.”

“And an immodest one,” she added, smiling back. She didn’t doubt his ability for a minute. She half-suspected he would be good at whatever he did. He had an air of competence that went well beyond an arrogant jaw.

Indeed, the fish was delicious. As was the fresh-squeezed orange juice she found at breakfast the next morning. He was, it seemed, a handy man to have around.

This was Anne’s last morning in Vermont. To her surprise, when she headed for the woods, Mitch fell into step beside her, and it was as peaceful a hike as any she’d had. There was silence, the soft sounds of nature, and Mitch’s occasional comments. He was knowledgeable in the ways of the forest and had a wealth of information to share. He talked about species of trees and flowers, habits of woodland creatures, the history of the area itself, and did it all in an easygoing, unpretentious manner. He read Anne well, and knew when to speak and when to be still. She was almost sorry when they arrived back at the cabin, since her next chore was to pack.

Too soon that was done. With her luggage stowed in the trunk, she put her key in the ignition-and for a brief minute hoped her engine would fail. It was a possibility, wasn’t it? She hadn’t started the car once all week.

But it coughed to life at the first turn, and hummed smoothly as it warmed. Which left only one thing left to do.

She was about to climb from the car when that one thing rounded the house. “You weren’t going to leave without saying good-bye, were you?” he asked, bending to talk through the open window of the car.

“I was just going to come and find you.”

“Do you have all your stuff.?”

“Uh-huh. I left the rest of the apple pie for you.”

His eyes sparkled warmly. “Thanks. You do make a good one, even though your coffee is still too weak.”

“Then you’ll be glad to be rid of me.” She smiled wryly. “When do you leave?”

“Later today.”

“Oh.” What else to say? His fingers curved over the window ledge. They were strong fingers, nice ones.

“Will you be back up here at all?” he asked quietly.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought too far ahead. It’s been a good week, though. I’m sorry to be leaving.”

“It wasn’t all that bad, was it?” He seemed suddenly hesitant. “Look,” he began tentatively, “I’ll be coming up the week before Thanksgiving. Kind of to give myself a boost before the holidays. Keep it in mind.” He stopped short of an open invitation, but the implication was there.