The Vineyard (27 page)

He made a sputtering sound that might have been a laugh, a note of amazement that she wasn't freaked out about his burning down a house. She saw him shake his head in the dark. Buck meowed again.

“Are you trying to scare me off?” she asked.

“Am I succeeding?”

“No. I have no stake in you. There's no risk.”

“You don't care that I have a violent side?”

Olivia saw herself yelling at Tess in the parking lot outside the yacht club. There had been violence in that. Granted, it hadn't been physical. As catalysts went, though, Simon's loss was far greater than Olivia's momentary disappointment in Tess. “I can't begin to imagine what I would do if I lost just about everything, the way you did. If you can't just pick up and move away, I suppose destroying a painful reminder is the next best thing.”

He didn't respond at first. His profile was a dark silhouette when he looked out at the sea. There were more fireworks, but she didn't think he saw those. He seemed to be in a world of his own, back at least four years.

Time to leave,
Olivia thought.

Then he spoke, and the thought left her. His voice was less sure, even pained. “I shouldn't have done it. I was angry. I felt helpless. I needed to do something. What I ended up doing was erasing every trace of my life with them. The painful reminders went along with all the good stuff. I burned it all to the ground. There were ashes. That's it.”

“There was nothing left at all? Not even any pictures?”

“Carl had some. Natalie had some. They kept trying to give them to me. It was awhile before I could bear to look at them. I still have trouble. Part of me says that all I need is my memories.”

Well, he certainly did have those. And they were like a moat around him, keeping Olivia at a distance. She was here—and he was there, with his dead wife and child.

Grateful now to the dark for hiding her ugly hair and sweaty body, she said, “Look, if Tess bothers you again, just tell her to get lost.”

“That would be mean.”

“Tell her you're busy. Tell her that you're spraying something dangerous and that she shouldn't be in the fields. I'll try to keep her from going out when you're there.” Another meow came from Buck. “Is he all right?”

“He's fine.”

“Aren't you worried about him being out here in the woods?”

“He's a tough guy.”

“But aren't there tougher guys here?”

“Not many. You haven't been coming out mornings.”

Olivia was a minute changing gears. She wrapped her arms around her middle. “No. That's your time. Your place.”

“I was wondering if it was something else.”

He was looking at her. She heard the directness of his voice, along with something of a challenge.

She threw the challenge right back at him. “Like what?”

“I see you sitting up there in your window. What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking how lucky I am to be here.”

“Anything else?”

“What else would there be?”

He didn't speak, but she felt his answer right there where it was every morning, in the pit of her stomach. It was a tiny ache, unwelcome and annoying, but
there
.

She took a step back and held up a hand. “Hey, if you're thinking there should be something else, that's your problem. Me? I'm free and clear. We agreed that if anyone thought there might be something, they were totally misguided. There's nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She took a fast breath. “And even if there
were
something, I wouldn't act on it. In case you hadn't realized it yet, Tess is a handful.” She began walking slowly back toward the road. “I'm a mother, first and foremost. That doesn't mean I don't
feel
things. Of
course
I feel things. But that's as far as it goes.” She jogged backward now, adding breaks to the flow of her voice. “And even if I
was
attracted to you, it'd be a moot point. I may be a sucker for nice legs, but I'm no masochist.”

She turned, accelerated gently from a jog to a run, and poured her concentration into staying on the road in the dark.

I
T WASN'T OVER
. The next morning at dawn, she was there on the window seat, having slept less than five hours. Tess hadn't come home until ten-thirty. Then they spent two hours talking about sensitivity, respect for others, and the endurance of motherly love. After that, Olivia had lain awake for a while before finally dropping off—and still she was up at first light.

It struck her that since today was the Fourth of July, Simon might be sleeping in.

But there he was, right on schedule, emerging from under the awning and walking to the edge of the patio. There was no coffee cup in his hand, though—that was a first. Curious, she watched him put his hands on his hips. He stared out over the vineyard as he had done so often before. His back was straight. Same with his legs. There was no casual one-hipped stance today. To her, his stance indicated that something was wrong, and she wondered what it was.

Then he looked up at her over his shoulder, hitched his head in the direction of the vines, and set off down the path.

Her heart began to thud. His gesture had been an invitation—no doubt about it.

Did he want to talk? Did he have something to show her?

She kept her eye on the path, thinking he might reappear and give her a clue. When he didn't, she made a snap decision. In two seconds, she had the nightshirt off and a T-shirt and shorts on. Snatching up flip-flops, she went barefooted through the bathroom to check on Tess, then returned through her room and ran quietly down the stairs.

It had rained not long before. The patio stones were still wet. She put on the flip-flops and set off.

Dampness was thick in the warm July air. Add that to the rain itself, and the grapes couldn't be pleased. Perhaps the unwanted rain was the cause of Simon's tension. What she had imagined to be the hitch of his head might have simply been a gesture of frustration.

But she reached the vineyard path and, with the slap of the flip-flops,
Strode on, looking down each row, wondering where she was supposed to find Simon. Suddenly it struck her that she was probably making a fool of herself coming out like this. She should have stayed in the window. She should have stayed in
bed
.

Still, she went on. She was at the very end of the block of vines when she saw him way off to the side. He was leaning against a fat old maple tree, arms and ankles crossed.

He was waiting for her. She approached more slowly, stopping when she was a dozen feet away, and tucked her hands in her pockets.

“You called?” she asked sweetly.

He grunted, shot a look to the side, and almost smiled.

Just as she was thinking that if an almost smile made her this weak, a full one would absolutely make her melt, he crooked a finger, inviting her closer.

Heart pounding, she took a single large step toward him and stopped. “Yes?”

Uncrossing his ankles, he pushed away from the tree and closed the distance between them. His eyes were serious as they searched hers. Seconds later, he took her head in both hands and tilted her face up for a kiss.

There was nothing gentle about it. It was a hard, open-mouthed thing that spoke of raw hunger.

Olivia felt that hunger right down to her toes. She had admired him once too often, had watched his lean-hipped walk and seen those biceps lift and pull. There was a mystery to him that increased the hunger. There was also about him an element of the forbidden. His kiss was all the more exciting for the fact that it wasn't supposed to happen.

He wasn't smooth. There was no finesse in the way he held her head or manipulated her mouth, but raw hunger didn't allow for finesse. Olivia didn't care, though—she craved hunger far more than style. Slipping her arms around his neck, she kissed him back. Suddenly she had an image of her daughter, and she smiled inwardly. Yes, Tess had been right saying that he smelled—he smelled wonderfully clean and totally male. His hair was damp and thick to the touch, his neck warm, his shoulders strong. She slid her palms over the swell of his chest, but they quickly returned to his neck. She had to hold on. Her legs wouldn't support her.

She had thought it was only her. She had thought the tingling
She felt watching him each morning was one-sided, but it didn't feel that way now. His body was tensed, straining.

So maybe he had been without for so long that any woman would do. When he tore his mouth from hers, he pulled her into his body and held her there with an arm across her back and a hand on her bottom. He was fiercely aroused. It was an incredible thing for a woman to feel. Would any woman have caused it?

She didn't want that. She didn't do anonymous sex. She didn't do
surrogate
sex.

But that was her name she heard murmured by a hoarse, broken voice seconds before he drew his head back, and those were her eyes that his found and held. Looking into his eyes, she saw surprise and confusion. She saw heat. His breathing was rough, his brow damp. His jaw was square, newly shaved so that only the ghost of a dark beard remained. His mouth was lean, slightly ajar. His eyes were a deep, deep blue.

Those eyes were wide open and knowing. Yes, he knew it was her. Unbelievable, given that she was no blonde bombshell, but he did know it was her.

That made it more sweet when he kissed her again, gentler this time, tasting more than devouring. His tongue moved against hers, sliding up, slipping back. His movements became slow and arousing, tempting as all get-out. She ached inside.

She gave herself up to the ache, moving against his body for relief, searching his mouth for whatever she could find. But just as she didn't do anonymous sex, she didn't do one-night stands—or one-morning stands, which was where they seemed headed. It was totally exciting and utterly terrifying. And absolutely impossible.

Exerting a small pressure on his shoulders, she broke the kiss and stepped back. Breathing hard, she stared at him.

Breathing equally hard, he stared right back.

This time, she didn't have the wherewithal to stare him down. Dropping her gaze, she flattened a fist on her thudding heart and took a breath that should have calmed her. But one wouldn't do. Her insides were wired. She took a second breath and then a third. Without looking at him again, she held up a hand.

She should have waited longer. Her legs were far from steady. But she feared she might change her mind and go back for more, which wouldn't do at all.

She was the woman. She was in control. She could say when she wanted to be kissed and when she didn't, and right now she didn't.

Turning in a way that sent her heel skidding off its flip-flop, she caught herself, raised her chin, and walked off with as much dignity as a woman on wobbly legs could muster.

Sixteen
 

“W
HY DIDN'T YOU MARRY
C
ARL
in 1942?”

“Because I married Alexander.”

Olivia looked at Natalie for a minute, then shook her head and smiled. “Why am I not surprised by that answer?”

Natalie was smiling, too. “Why aren't you? Tell me.”

“Because you always see the cup as half full. And because you don't like talking about things that are painful.”

“Or embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing? The reason you married Alexander instead of Carl?” Olivia could only think of one embarrassing reason—her being pregnant with Alexander's child. But there was no way that would happen. No way. Natalie loved Carl.

“Yes, embarrassing.”

“Why?”

Natalie rolled her eyes. When they returned to Olivia, they held a sheen of tears. Her smile was self-conscious now. “Because …” She started, but stopped. She rose from the wicker lounge chair and began gathering dirty paper plates and cups from the nearby table.

It was late afternoon on the Fourth of July. Waves of heat rose
from the gas grill as it burned off remnants of hamburgers and hot dogs. Madalena and Joaquin had returned salads, rolls, and condiments to the kitchen. The dozen or so friends who had been there for lunch had departed. Carl had taken Tess and Jill for ice cream cones.

Simon hadn't showed. Carl had been asked about him, though it was more a query about how he fared than about where he was. Apparently no one had expected to see him—and while Olivia found that sad, she was profoundly relieved. She was still trying to decide exactly what had happened this morning out there under that tree.

It was much easier to focus on this.

Rising, she helped Natalie clean up. Beneath mustard and ketchup stains, and the occasional potato chip or hot dog bun scrap, the paperware was a patriotic red-white-and-blue.

“Why is it embarrassing?”

Natalie emptied fruit punch leftovers into a single cup and stacked the empties underneath. “Maybe ‘embarrassing' is the wrong word. Maybe ‘ashamed' is better.” She quickly looked at Olivia. “Not that the decision I made was wrong, or that Alexander wasn't a good man. I don't want my children to think that, because it isn't true. He was a fine man. I liked him. I came to
love
him. We had a good life together. If I was in the same situation and was given the same choice, I'd do exactly the same thing now as I did then.” The fire left her. She frowned and toyed with the cups.