Set Me Free (9 page)

Owen was studying me, his mouth a concerned line.

“What?” I swallowed.

“Nothing.” He glanced at my phone again, then handed it to me. I turned it off and slipped it into my jacket pocket, a dull weight I felt all the way up to my shoulders.

“Does he really think he can bully you into going back?”

“Don’t you?” Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, even I was waiting for the moment when my will would crumble under the pressure of my fear, and I would go back.

“No,” Owen said at once, his voice hard. “No way in hell.”

I looked up at him, surprised, and he cupped my face again, stroking his thumb across my cheekbone the way he had before, casting a tingling warmth across my skin. “You are so brave, Miranda.”

I gave a hollow laugh. “I’m not brave. I ran away, like a coward.”

“It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “You left him, and now you’re free. That’s more than most people can imagine doing in their lifetimes.”

I wasn’t sure I believed him, but
he
believed what he was saying, and that meant the world to me. “Thank you,” I said softly, looping my arms around his neck. I wanted to kiss him again, but suddenly felt shy. He smoothed my hair back and kissed my forehead. Gradually, he worked his way downwards: my temple, my cheekbone, my lips. I gave a little sigh of relief. Once again, the rest of the world fell away; it was just us. And for the first time since I’d left, I did feel free.

“Lunch?” Owen suggested eventually, between kisses.

“Good idea.” Before I lost my head completely. “Assuming you’re taking me to a real place, and not making me climb over huge rocks for no reason.”

He grinned. “It’s real, and I think you’ll like it.”

He steadied me as I clambered to the top of the boulder and slid down the other side, landing with a splash on the wet sand and rocks at the bottom. My flats looked a bit worse for wear, but otherwise I’d escaped unharmed. Owen jumped down after me and took my hand in his, and we walked through the remaining boulders towards the cliff face.

The beach shrank into a narrow path, with the cliff face on one side and the gray sea on the other. Eventually, we turned a corner and came upon a nook about four feet deep. It faced north to where the spine of the island curved around Fall Island Bay. A blanket lay across the sandy floor, with a bottle of wine and two stemless wine glasses in the center.

“This is wonderful,” I said, utterly dazed. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before. You must’ve had to get here so early…”

He shrugged. “Worth the rocks?”

“Completely.” I beamed at him, my heart swelling, then looked back at the staggering view. The forested mountains that made up the northern part of the island were just visible through the mist. I supposed if I were a millionaire I’d want to live up there, too. There would be more privacy for swimming around in piles of money, like Scrooge McDuck.

“How did you find this place?” I asked him, as we sat down on the blanket. “I mean, even for you, this is pretty remote.”

“I walk along the coastline a lot,” Owen said. But he didn’t quite look at me when he said it.

He poured us both a glass of wine while I shucked off my leather jacket. Realizing he was watching me, I turned to him with a smile. To my surprise, he blushed.

“What?” I asked curiously.

“Nothing. You’re just…I don’t know. Different. A city girl.”

“I know I’m not very outdoorsy—”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…I could see you in a big city. You’re so multi-cultural.”

“I am?”

“Yeah, with your dad living in England. And your accent.”

I laughed. “
My
accent? What about
your
accent?”

“I don’t have an accent.”

I edged towards him until our knees were touching, his jeans rough against my bare skin. “Say ‘wicked.’”

“No.” His grin widened.

“Okay, say ‘lobster.’”

“Only if you say something about the Queen.”

“I don’t have an English accent,” I protested.

“No,” he agreed, “it’s more a mix of English and something else. Spanish, I guess?”

“My mum’s family is Puerto Rican,” I admitted. “And I had a lot of Latino friends, growing up.”

“There, you see.” He touched one broad fingertip to my chin, tilting my head up towards his.

“If you say so…darling.” I dropped the ‘r’ and drew out the ‘a’ the way my dad would. Owen’s cheeks pinked. He stroked his thumb once across my bottom lip, then released my jaw and twined a lock of my hair through his fingers, as gentle as if he were smoothing the scroll on a violin.

“Do you look like your mom?” he asked, watching the light play on my black hair.

“I look like the photographs I’ve seen of her,” I said. “She died a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

His fingers slid from my hair down along my bare arm, to the delicate skin in the crease of my elbow. “What about the rest of your family? Where are they?”

“My mum’s family is in Puerto Rico, and my dad’s is in England.”

His brow creased, as his fingers made slow, soothing circles on my skin. “That sounds pretty lonely, M.”

“I don’t feel lonely right now,” I said softly.

Owen set his wine down on the sand and took both of my hands in his, frowning down at my rings and bracelets. “Miranda, I’m not…I have to…”

“What is it?” I thought about the way he’d kissed me earlier and wanted to feel his lips on mine again. Everywhere.

But, his expression pensive, he didn’t answer me. I forced a smile and reached for the tote bag. “How about some lunch?”

Owen nodded, his face still shuttered. I pulled out the lunch things I’d brought and started asking him questions about how Ferdinand was settling in with the rest of Claire’s dogs. We worked our way through the sandwiches and snacks and the bottle of wine, talking about Claire and her menagerie until the smile had returned to Owen’s eyes. After lunch, he helped me out of the cave, back onto the narrow path.

“What are you doing tomorrow, beautiful?” he asked, as we neared the parking lot.

“Working a double,” I said. “But the next day I’m only on for the lunch shift, if you…”

“Come over for dinner,” he said at once. “I’ll make you something delicious.”

I
drifted
from table to table, struggling to remember the most basic things, like actually bringing people their drinks instead of letting the full beer glasses sweat on the bar. Since my afternoon at the beach with Owen, time had seemed all confused, too fast, too slow, while I waited for tonight. Dinner at his place, with Suzanna just upstairs.

I realized I had a new table—a high top that sat two—and hurried towards it. “I’m so sorry for the wait,” I said, as I put down two coasters and two sets of silverware.

“It’s just me,” said a familiar velvety voice. “One place setting is fine.”

I glanced up at the man at the table. He wore a dress shirt and tie. A hat and a pack of cigarettes sat on the table in front of him. That sensation of stepping into another era came over me again, like sliding into a warm bath.

“It’s you,” I said, bewildered.

“That’s what I said.” He smiled. “Miranda, wasn’t it? The artist and aspiring bartender.”

“That’s right,” I replied, trying to regain my chirpy waitress demeanor. “And your name is—”

“James,” he supplied, before I could admit I’d forgotten it. “James Emory.”

I stuffed the extra coaster and silverware back into my apron pocket. “Can I get you something to drink, James?”

“A Manhattan, please.”

“Oh, good choice.”

He arched a dark eyebrow. “Do you drink them?”

“Sometimes. Usually I drink whiskey on the rocks.”

“Interesting. I wouldn’t have guessed that, looking at you.”

I blinked at him.

“You seem,” he added, by way of clarification, “so delicate. I imagine you drinking fine white wines.”

“I like wine, too.” Delicate? Me? People usually called me curvy, at best.

He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. Muscles rippled under his dress shirt. I had a vision of him working out with a personal trainer at a very expensive gym. “Remind me to show you my wine cellar. How long have you been on the island? Have you had a chance to try out any local specialties?”

I doubted he meant the island’s burger joint, Beer n’ Buns. “I wouldn’t really know where to go.”

“Do you like seafood?”

“I love it.”

“I know a great lobster place. I’d love to take you there.”

I’d just been asked out. “Wow—it’s so kind of you to offer, but I’m…er…seeing someone right now.”

Right? Wasn’t I? That seemed somehow both too much and not enough to describe what I had with Owen.

“That’s a shame, although hardly surprising.” He grinned. The man was confident, no doubt about it. “Well, if you ever change your mind, or if you need a tip on where to find the best lobster in Maine, give me a call.”

He pulled a business card out of his wallet and handed it to me in one smooth motion, as if he did this all the time. I glanced down at it and read:

“You own an auction house?”

“One of the family businesses,” he replied. “My father and grandfather opened it, and I was fortunate enough to inherit it. I love it, even though it means spending so much time in New York.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to New York.” I looked wistfully at the address on the back of the card.

“It’s a world-class city,” James said. “But I find as I get older, I’d rather be here.”

“That’s nice.” It
was
nice to hear someone talk about how much they liked Fall Island. It was a first, in fact. “How often do you get to be here?”

“Not often. A few weeks in the summer is all I can spare, usually.”

“The summer,” I echoed. “Do you live up on the north part of the island?”

“That’s right.” He smiled. “Have you ever been? It’s lovely.”

“It certainly looks lovely from a distance.”

“I’ll make sure to invite you to my next summer get-together.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, but privately I wondered if he’d just asked me out again. “What are the rest of the people up north like?”

“A few retirees, a television personality, the usual. It’s a nice crowd. Gets bigger all the time, as the island gets more popular.” He shrugged. “How is the painting going? Have you given any thought to showing your work?”

“It’s going.” I thought of the self-portrait I’d started but, yet again, had not finished. “An auction house,” I said. “That’s why you offered to introduce me to people.”

“That’s right. I know most of the major gallery owners in New York. Quite a few of them would be very impressed with the painting you showed me.”

“Wow.” Did he mean that, though? Or was it just another ploy for a date?

Fortunately, my waitress sense kicked in and told me that one of my tables was looking for their check. I excused myself, promising James a Manhattan, and went into the back to print their check and put in James’ drink order.

“Hey, I saw you talking to that guy!” Kaye tapped my shoulder. “You know he asked for you? I think he likes you.”

“He asked me out, but I turned him down.” I grabbed the check from the printer and tucked it into the check holder.

“What? Why? I mean, sure, he’s a little old for you, but still…”

I laughed. “You want his number?”

Kaye playfully shoved my arm. “He’s not asking for
me
.” She followed me to the bar. “Are you really not interested in him? Oh, hi, Muscles,” she added, as Muscles plopped down on one of the bar stools across from Andy.

“Who’s interested in me?” Muscles asked.

“Not
you
.” Kaye rolled her eyes. “That rich guy over there keeps asking Miranda out, but she won’t go.”

“I don’t have to go out with him just because he’s rich, Kaye.” Or even because he could introduce me to important people in the New York art scene.

“Don’t let my mother hear you say that,” Kaye said. She was watching James, while Andy, as he made James’ Manhattan, was watching her. Muscles, meanwhile, was reading a magazine about beer.

Shaking my head, I walked off to give my table their check. As I did so, I glanced at the cobwebbed grandfather clock in the far corner. 3:00. Just a few more hours until I saw Owen again.

* * *

I
showed
up at his door a bit late, after changing my outfit a thousand times. I’d eventually settled on a short midnight-blue dress and black stockings. As the finale, I’d added ropes of crystal quartz around my neck. I felt self-conscious about the jewelry now, though, and wondered if it was too much. A Maine girl would have worn a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, not this. Nothing like this.

I took a deep breath and knocked.

Owen opened the door a moment later, wearing jeans, of course, but also a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He looked fantastic, and we matched, thankfully.

“God.” He looked me up and down.

I brought my hands to my neckline. “What? Is it bad?”

“Bad? You’re gorgeous. Come inside before someone tries to steal you from me.”

I laughed. He drew me inside and shut the door behind me. I could smell his soap, and an earthy cologne that complemented his usual spicy scent.

He was still looking at my dress and sparkling necklaces, with a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Can I get you a glass of wine?”

For one uncomfortable moment, the question made me think of James Emory. I tried to brush the thought aside. “I’d love one.”

Owen opened a bottle of red wine at his kitchen counter and poured each of us a glass. My nervousness came back as I stood in the kitchen. I kept thinking back to our afternoon at the beach: everything I had told him, and every time he had kissed me.

“How was your shift?” he asked, biting his lip, and for the first time, it occurred to me that he might be nervous, too.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” I said lightly. “I kept accidentally bumping into that stuffed organ-grinder monkey Bill keeps in the hallway.”

Owen grinned. “That thing gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“All of Bill’s decorations give me the heebie-jeebies.” The only one I really liked was the stained glass window that had given the bar its name. It showed a woman standing on a cupola—a Widow’s Walk—looking forlornly out to sea. “It’s a great place, though,” I said. “I really can’t thank you enough for suggesting it.”

Owen shrugged that away, but I meant it. I didn’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t run into him on that cool, misty morning.

“Did you work today?” I asked.

“Just a few things in the morning. Spent most of the day working on a project for Marianne.”

I brightened. “I love Marianne! She and your mom are such a cute couple.”

“She’s been great for my mom. She even likes dogs.”

“Thank God for that. What are you making for her?”

“Nothing too fancy—just replacing a banister in her house.” He had turned away and now moved effortlessly around the room as he spoke, bringing a couple of steaming dishes to the kitchen table, lighting the pillar candles he’d placed in the center. “Should come out nice, though. I’m doing a seashell inlay. Marianne likes nautical stuff.”

“That sounds kind of fancy,” I pointed out, which made him smile. “Can I help with anything?”

He waved a hand dismissively. It was hard not to stare in wonder while he finished setting the table and gestured for me to sit. He’d made me dinner twice now, and this one had turned out to be even more delicious than the first: peppered steak with a brandy cream sauce, roasted haricots verts, and frisée salad with hazelnuts.

“This is amazing,” I told him, in between bites. “And I must say, also pretty fancy.”

“It wasn’t hard. Though it helps that my stepmom’s French. She’s taught me a few tricks.”

“I didn’t know that. You’re multicultural too.”

He laughed. “Not like you are. I didn’t grow up with it or anything.”

“Still counts,” I replied. “I’ve tried to pick up a few recipes from my Puerto Rican family over the years.”

“I’d like to try some Puerto Rican food. Not a lot of that on Fall Island.”

“I’ll make you
arroz con pollo
sometime,” I promised. “Or maybe
mallorca
! I love those. But those are usually for breakfast.”

Owen coughed, and I blushed. Good one, Miranda. Very subtle.

“Um…what’s
mallorca
?” he asked politely.

“They’re pastries. Like an egg bread, with powdered sugar.”

I told him about going to La Bombonera whenever we went into San Juan, or, when we made
mallorca
ourselves, spending lazy Saturday afternoons waiting for the dough to rise so we could eat them after church on Sunday. It was hard to believe I hadn’t been to Puerto Rico in almost ten years.

“We should go sometime,” Owen said, with a shy smile that made my heart feel about to burst. “Or England—I’d like to go there, too.”

“I love England,” I said, trying to imagine Owen folding himself into a tiny airplane seat. “Have you ever been abroad?”

“Once, to France, when I helped Maryse and the kids pack up their stuff before they moved to California.” He explained that his dad and his stepmom had met in Paris while his dad was there on business. They’d had a whirlwind courtship and had been married on a beach in the south of France. Maryse had packed up her three kids and moved them all to California to be with Charles. “It was all very out of character for him,” Owen said. “Larsens are not romantic.”

I looked around at the candlelight and the wonderful dinner he had made. “Obviously,” I agreed. “Not romantic at all.”

I thought about the way he had held me at the beach, as though he were a drowning man and I were a life raft.

He shrugged, glancing down. I wanted to ask him what was so bad about being a romantic, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away long enough to form a coherent question.

And then there was how he had picked me up, how light I had felt in his arms. The way my legs had fit around his waist.

He must have realized I was staring at him, because he glanced back up at me. We didn’t speak. I wondered what it would be like to slip my hand into the collar of his shirt.

“Um…” he said. “Um…dessert?”

“Oh—yes, that would be great,” I heard myself say.

He got up, running his hands through his hair. With his back to me, he rested his hands on the counter and took a deep breath.

I wanted to know everything about him: what made him laugh, what made him cry, what he longed for, what he dreamed about at night.

You’re moving too fast
, I told myself.
You have bad taste in men.
I told myself all of that, but it didn’t matter, because at the moment I didn’t believe any of it.

I went to him.

He turned, his eyebrows drawn together, and said, “I made…um…I…”

Suddenly he was kissing me. He gripped the length of my hair and pulled, tilting my head back. I gasped, and that made him groan as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding between my lips. He drew me towards him, holding me by the waist, crushing the silky fabric of my dress between his fingers.

Breathing hard, he jerked away. “I shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t what?” I asked, but he just looked at me, his eyes full of longing and fire.