Sacred Waters (12 page)

“I grew up.”

He frowned as if not understanding her answer. She wished he’d stop giving her that analyzing look. “Skating isn’t a fantasy job. There are plenty of adults that do it and make a living of it. Would you have wanted to compete in choreographed skating or in more of an athletic capacity?”

She snorted. “You’ve seen my athletic skills. Definitely not someone who excels in agility or grace. It was just something I dreamt of when I was a girl. Nothing more than a daydream.”

“Why dismiss something you’re passionate about?”

“Because I’m not. I was, but not anymore. Like I said, I grew up.” She sounded defensive, but she really wanted him to drop it.

 “What made you grow up, Sammy?”

Her heart started to pound and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Why was he being so persistent? Her forehead beaded with perspiration that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. He seemed to notice a change and began to look around for something. What, she didn’t know.

He reached to the opposite side of his chair and faced her again with a water bottle. He handed it to her. “Here, have a sip of water.”

She took it from him and wanted to scream when she saw how badly her hands were shaking.
Fuck!
Her fingers reached to unscrew the lid and accidentally dropped the cool bottle into the sand, the grains immediately gluing to the condensation.

“Goddamn it,” she hissed and then realized her mistake. She looked at him apologetically, but the moment she opened her mouth to say sorry her lungs took it upon themselves to gulp down a much needed breath of air. Her chest tightened painfully as her heart raced like she’d just sprinted a mile. Her eyes blinked rapidly as dizziness threatened to make her faint.

Damn it, she was having an anxiety attack. She hadn’t had one in almost ten months. She really thought she was over them.

“Shit,” Colin muttered and quickly got out of his chair and knelt in front of her. He turned her face toward him and instructed calmly, “Sammy, look at me. It’s okay, just breathe.”

He reached for her fisted hand and unclenched her fingers, placing her open palm on his chest directly over his strong heartbeat. His skin was smooth and warm. “Breathe with me.”

She looked into his blue-green eyes. They were so close he only managed to take her breath away once more. She watched him inhale and the warmth of his breath caressed her cheek as he slowly exhaled. Unbelievably, calm washed over her and her panic receded as her breathing slowed.

Never seeming to blink or break eye contact, he nodded and slowly smiled. “That a girl. You got it. Just breathe with me.”

His hand somehow managed to find the back of her neck. His thumb drew careful circles over the fine baby hair that never quite made it into her ponytail. When her breathing returned to normal he still didn’t let her go.

Realizing their proximity, Samantha knew she should extricate herself from his hold before someone approached and misinterpreted their position. It was crucial that she avoid having to explain what just happened. But something held her there, something stronger than Colin’s touch.

Similar to the shift in the air she felt earlier when Braydon was about to kiss her, the air shifted again, only this time the shift was something more, something potent as if creating a vortex that would swallow her whole if she allowed it to touch her.

Was he going to kiss her?

They looked at one and other, their faces so close she could actually see the tiny flecks of gold in his irises.

“That’s it, Sammy,” he whispered. “Breathe.”

She wondered if he realized she was fine now. If he was only pretending she still needed him so that he didn’t have to let her go. They each leaned closer and she suddenly didn’t care about who might be watching. She wanted him to kiss her more than she wanted her next breath. Her lashes slowly lowered and his palm slid to the side of her neck, his thumb caressing that soft spot below her earlobe and her jaw. She leaned into the caress. His hand cupped her face, but didn’t stop her. As a matter of fact he seemed to follow the movement by sifting his fingers gently through her hair.

A whispered sigh passed her lips that somehow carried the weight of a siren.

Colin’s hand was immediately withdrawn and he was on his feet. Jarred by the sudden movement, she looked up at him. He seemed to be the one having trouble breathing.

She shook her head as if to tell him nothing would have happened, but they both seemed to know that was a lie not worth being uttered.

Apparently desperate for an escape, Colin did the safest thing to assure she didn’t follow him. He turned without a word and didn’t stop moving until he dove into the safety of the water.

Chapter Seven

The following day was peaceful. It was Monday so many of the McCulloughs were at work. Even Braydon decided to pick up some extra money and help out his family as they worked logging in the nearby woods. Sam was enjoying the day with Maureen and Mary, who insisted she call her Morai, which was pronounced
Morree.

She hadn’t seen or spoken to Colin since their encounter on the beach. He considerately avoided her by swimming to the dock and remaining there until she and Sheilagh left the beach. She wasn’t sure if he was even in the house.

Sam woke up early in the morning to the sound of the shower running, and once she realized he was naked on the other side of the door it became impossible to go back to sleep. Tossing and turning until sounds of the rest of the family awaking broke the silence of the house and she finally showered and dressed.

There had been something so peculiarly intimate about showering in the same place he had recently been standing, both naked, water from her body mixing with the water that had sloshed off his skin…that was the pathetic route her thoughts had taken the entire day.

After she’d dressed, she ventured to other parts of the house and found Maureen working on something in the kitchen. Needing the distraction from her thoughts, she offered to help. They were making up a basket for a woman in town named Francine who had recently fallen down the church steps and broken her foot.

Maureen was one of those impressively talented chefs that knew recipes for anything by heart and could measure accurately with nothing more than her fingers or palms. She directed Sam without overtures or requests. Her directions could offend some, but Sam was not insulted. She found it flattering that Maureen had enough faith and confidence in her skills to simply assume she could do any task well. Her high standards only made Samantha want to please her more.

As she plugged apples into a hand cranked peeler bolted to the counter she continued to wind the mechanism as long strands of green apple peels spiraled into a brown bag resting on the floor. Maureen filled the silence with chatter from everything about the town gossip to stories of her children’s youth. It seemed the woman knew there was no future for Samantha and Braydon, yet still spoke to her as if she was meant to stay.

This confused Samantha, the way Maureen invested in sharing with her personal antidotes that were a prerequisite to becoming a member of the McCullough clan, but she was enjoying herself too much to ask Braydon’s mother why she bothered.

Around four o’clock Colleen, Maureen’s older sister, came in looking flustered, but still in good spirits. Samantha understood her mood the moment a little old woman followed her into the kitchen rapidly speaking in…Italian?

Colleen rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, somebody hand me a drink or a shotgun. This has been going on for over an hour.”

As if this were a common occurrence, Maureen finished washing her hands at the sink and reached to the cabinet below, just beside the window cleaner and dish detergent, and pulled out a bottle of Irish whiskey.

Colleen found a cup quickly and filled the glass with two fingers then threw it down the hatch. “Christ that’s good.”

“Hello, Mary. How are you today?” Maureen shouted at the small Italian woman.

The little woman, whose hair was blacker than onyx turned to her sharply and said, “Do you believe the doctor still cannot find a damn thing wrong with me?” She told Maureen, outraged. “I have been through a’fifty-five exams and they cannot find a damn thing.”

“Be grateful for your health, Mom,” Colleen groaned.

“Health! What health? I wake up feeling as if I have been dragged by a pack of mules. What healthy woman wakes up a’feeling like a’that?”

“Yer not ill. Yer old!” Morai snapped, appearing equally as irritated as her daughter Colleen.

Samantha actually shied away when she saw the look the little Italian shot Morai. “Who are you calling old?”

“You! You got bollocks in your ears?”

The other woman shouting a stream of Italian at Morai and Morai, appearing to understand every word of it, puffed up her chest and shouted back, “Sod off! Yer older than me, ye’are. Look at ye, visitin’ every chemist in town tryin’ to ken the antidote for agin’. I’ll tell ye it now, Mary, like I’ve told ye before. It’s grace and ye got about as much in ye as a stone. Quit yer bellyaching and get on with it like the rest of us and stop actin’ like a gobshite!”

“Oh dear,” Maureen muttered, reaching for the whiskey her sister was still holding.

“
Vaffanculo!”
the Italian woman shrilled.

Samantha wasn’t sure what the word meant, but she knew it was bad.

Luckily, Colleen stepped forward calmly and said, “That’s enough now. Mum, go back to what you were doin’ and Mary, why don’t you start heating the gravy?”

Mary the Italian pressed her red lips together and pulled in a tight breath, but reached into the bag Colleen carried in with her and yanked out an old apron, the kind that looked like a smock and buttoned up the shoulders.

The angry Italian continued to mutter in disgruntled Italian, but pulled a large pot from the cabinet to cook with. She seemed to be playing the martyr, commenting here and there about what a bother it was to cook for a bunch of unsophisticated Irish palates, yet needing to provide her services so there was something decent for everyone to eat.

Sam stood watching, afraid to move and perhaps be noticed by the angry woman, as she lifted a huge jar of red sauce onto the counter and began spooning it into a large pot.

“I’ll tell you what the problem is, I’ll tell you,” Italian Mary mumbled. “You are just bitter, Mary, that Arthur sat next to me in church.”

“Sat next to ye, aye? Are ye out of yer bloody mind? Ye gave him no choice shoving yer boney arse down the pew until he was wedged against the rail. Arthur is a gentle man and ye frighten him with yer pushy ways.”

“You gotta’ know how to treat a man. That’s your mistake. Men like being a’told what to do. And I’d rather be boney then built like an ox!”

Colleen and Maureen fit unbaked piecrust to two pie tins and were having their own conversation as if the women were not about to kill one another again. Morai came over to where Sam was sitting and began collecting the peeled apples and slicing them precisely with nary a look to where the blade landed.

“I may be built like an ox, but yer the one who acts like ye were raised in a barn.”

The sound of a metal spoon being forcibly dropped onto the counter filled the kitchen. Mary the Italian turned, mouth open, prepared to fire at Irish Mary, but suddenly stilled when her gaze fell on Samantha.
Not good.

“Who are you?” She pointed accusingly at Sam.

Maureen dusted off her hands on a rag and came to stand beside Sam as if her presence could somehow protect her. “This is Samantha, Mary,” she shouted. “She’s Braydon’s friend from college.”

Italian Mary frowned as she thought about Sam’s orientation to the family and then her expression changed entirely, morphing into a painted red smile and glad eyes. She clapped her hands together happily, her knotty knuckles decorated with fancy ruby rings and gold bands.

“Braydon’s friend you say? How a’wonderful! Come here child and let Nonna have a look at you!”

“Better go,” Colleen mumbled and Sam stood to slowly walk to the little woman.

Italian Mary clasped her hands in her own, her jewelry clacking together like teeth.

“Aren’t you just beautiful!” she said in a thick Italian lilt.

Sam smiled, but regretted the moment she let down her guard. One of those heavily jeweled, knotty knuckles came up to her cheek and pinched so hard tears immediately filled Sam’s eyes.

“You be sure to a’be good to my Braydon. He needs a fine woman to look after him. Are you planning on a’marrying him, dear? Oh, it will be a fine Catholic wedding from the looks of you!”

“She’s not marrying Braydon,” Morai corrected. “You’re about as sharp as a bloody ball.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to make of that comment. Did everyone get that she was barely invested in her relationship with Braydon?

Her concern for herself escalated abruptly when Italian Mary turned her dark eyes on her.

“Why don’t you a’want to marry my Braydon?” she asked accusingly.

“Um…”

“You think you can do better than him?”

“No, I just…we…”

“Oh, leave her alone,” Colleen snapped, physically turning her mother-in-law back to the stove and shoving the ladle into her hand. “Stir the gravy.”

Morai whispered, “Don’t mind her, lassie. She’s as thick as manure, but only half as useful. She doesn’t understand shite about the way of things. Now come on and peel those last three apples and I’ll show ye how to make a pie that men will be fallin’ over ye fer.”

The rest of the afternoon passed at turtle speed, Samantha afraid to breathe within Italian Mary’s earshot. When the boys started filing in for dinner she snuck away to her room for a few moments’ peace.

Shutting her door she went straight to the bathroom. When she shut off the faucet after washing her hands she heard something that made her still. It was Colin’s deep voice. Slowly, she approached the adjoining bathroom door and listened.

“Of course,” Colin said then was quiet for a moment.