What Might Have Been (7 page)

So she settled for part of the truth, but not the most important part. Her father would have told her a lie of omission was still a sin.

He'd be right. But it was hardly her worst one.

“Because I needed someone. And you weren't here.”

T
HE SHRILL SOUND OF THE
phone startled Gran out of her reverie…out of the good memories that had been her companion through the pain of the past few weeks.

She sat at the table, waiting for Ainsley or Luke to pick up one of the other extensions. Oh, yes. She'd forgotten for a moment that they'd gone into town. She pushed unsteadily from the table and grasped the receiver.

Phones were so different now. She could immediately sit back down at the table, taking the cordless extension with her. Shaking her head, Gran punched the button that Ainsley had showed her would answer the call.

So many buttons these days.

“Hello?”

“Can I speak with Luke Collier please?”

“I'm sorry, he's not here.” She hoped he and Ainsley got back soon, though. They needed to leave for the funeral home in a couple hours.

“Could I leave him a message?”

“Certainly. Let me find a piece of paper.” Her joints
moaned in protest as she stood and walked to the far side of the kitchen. She reached into the drawer where Ainsley had arranged the few things she'd need.

“This is his Realtor. We have someone interested and they'd like to meet to discuss the property.”

Gran stopped scratching as soon as the woman on the other end had said Realtor.

“Do you have a number where he can call you back?”

The woman recited it and Gran pretended to write it down.

“I'll ask him to call you.”

Disconnecting the line, Gran tore the small square of paper from the pad, ripped it into several pieces and slipped them into the pocket of the fuzzy robe Ainsley had bought her last Christmas.

Before she could sit down again, Luke walked in through the open door.

“Who was that?”

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely. “Someone calling about your grandfather's funeral arrangements.”

With a nod, Luke retreated again. She should probably feel bad about what she'd just done. But she didn't.

Some people needed a little help to realize what was important.

 

T
HE VISITATION WAS GRUELING
. Luke had stood at the front of the small chapel at Brown's Funeral Home—the only funeral home in town—with Gran on his right,
Ainsley on his left and the open casket behind them, as a steady stream of people walked through to pay their last respects.

People he'd never met, or hadn't seen in twenty years, stopped to tell him stories of his grandfather. Or stories of his parents. Or stories of his brother. Or stories of himself.

Most of those stories might have had a sentimental or humorous slant, but they'd all exhausted him. They'd brought back memories of his own and reminded him of just how much he'd really lost in his relatively short lifetime. The two hours had turned into an emotional gauntlet he hadn't expected.

The three of them had each taken a private moment with Pops before the director had closed the casket and told them everything was ready for the service the following day. As they exited the building, Luke was surprised to find that late-afternoon had given way to the watery tones of early-evening.

The heat of the day still lingered, though, and despite spending most of his days in suits, the heavy, formfitting fabric had long since become cloying and claustrophobic. At the moment what he wanted more than anything was a few minutes of freedom. From his own memories and from the ringing disappointment of everyone he'd spoken to. Because what had inevitably followed each of those touching stories was an expression of disappointment that he planned to sell the orchard and throw away his heritage.

In his head he knew the little old men and women
who'd spoken thought they were doing the right thing. In reality they were just reinforcing his decision. There was no way he could live in this place. He couldn't stand up to the expectations of the entire town…of people he barely even knew!

Hours later, their words were still ringing in his ears. Slipping on a pair of nylon running shorts, Luke headed out the door into the night, into the quiet. It was well after ten, but it had been days since he'd been able to go for a run and he figured tomorrow didn't look promising. His time would be filled with more grief and responsibility…getting a few moments to run and clear his head was hoping for too much.

He hadn't always loved to run. But he'd discovered, after an unusually stressful day at the company, that he'd needed to find some small space of clean air to breathe in the ever-pressing walls of the city. He'd strapped on tennis shoes that were at least six years old and set out. It wasn't until he'd found a small park several blocks away that the pressure in his chest had finally started to ease.

Only to be replaced by a stitch in his side about halfway around the mile-long track. He'd limped home that night and been almost unable to walk the next morning. But two days later he'd been out there again, needing the green grass, tall trees and open spaces to clear his mind.

It had become his stress relief in a world he'd piled high with stress.

Tonight he needed the same escape, the same mindless
oblivion that let the hamster on the wheel in his brain take a rest.

There was something calming about the terrain as he ran. The gentle rhythm of his feet hitting the worn paths between the trees. The rustling of the wind through the leaves above his head.

The silence.

Although it might not be the safest thing he ever did, he often ran at night because he rarely made it home before the sun was down. The park was deserted…just as the orchard was right now.

Still. Silent. And all his.

He rounded the bend and the pond came into focus. A sliver of moonlight shone on the clear surface. The only sounds that cut through the night were the occasional harrumph of a bullfrog or the whine of a cicada.

It was beautiful here. He could almost convince himself the pond was ancient, enchanted and had never been touched by human hands before tonight.

It also looked inviting, especially when he realized that his skin was sticky with sweat both from his run and the heat of the summer night.

With a quick glance around, he shucked his shorts, folded them beneath a tree and dived in.

The frogs would let him know if anyone approached.

 

T
HEY WOULD HAVE.
I
F SHE
hadn't already been there, in the shadows.

Ainsley watched as he took a running leap off the dock, almost as if he expected the boards to spring with
his step, and jackknifed cleanly into the water. There was barely a splash as he slipped beneath the smooth surface.

She knew from personal experience, not just years' worth, but having come from the water herself twenty minutes before, that the middle was deeper than it appeared.

At five foot five inches, she couldn't touch the bottom. She'd guess that Luke, at just over six feet, could probably stand on the bottom with the crown of his head just breaking the surface.

He popped up, his shoulders clearing the water before dropping back down to bob at the surface.

He whipped his head back, using nothing but gravity and motion to clear the droplets from his face. A few still clung. She watched as they glinted and rolled down into the hollow of his cheek.

She should make a sound, let him know she was there. But she didn't want to. She much preferred to watch him in silence. At first her tongue had been tied by the unexpected show of skin she'd gotten as he'd stripped to nothing. Shadow and light played across his body, highlighting his physique. She didn't remember the dimples at the sides of his rear being quite as defined. She could probably dip the tip of her pinkie into one of them. His thighs, too, were harder than she remembered. Even from this distance, she could see their solid strength.

But the flat planes of his abs and the way his chest widened before tapering to a pleasant V at his waist…that was the same although perhaps a little more sculpted.
She hadn't gotten as good a view of that angle as she'd have liked.

And if she were honest, that was why she sat here, on the quickly hardening ground. Waiting for another, better, view of him. If she spoke up now she was afraid he'd go all modest on her.

He ducked beneath the surface again and she shifted forward, watching and waiting for him to come back. Wondering where he'd show up next. The water rippled where he'd disappeared. She strained her eyes, playing a game of hide-and-seek with him that he was unaware of.

The powerful kick of his legs brought him halfway across the pond before he surfaced…right at the edge closest to where she sat.

Here at the perimeter of the pond, the water was more shallow. When his feet hit the silt bottom, he shot up from the water again. This time the rippling surface barely lapped at the jutting edge of his hip bones. Water rolled down his torso, at first in a torrent and then slowing to tiny droplets clinging to his skin.

Her tongue burned for the right to reach over and lap them away.

Strong hands reached up, running through his hair and slicking it back from his face.

Her breath caught, a combination of fear of exposure and a need so sharp it stole her ability to think.

For a moment, when he opened his eyes again, she thought he'd seen her. But instead of recognition, shock or arousal, his gaze simply slipped past her hiding place.

She was tucked in the shelter of three trees, the shadows dark and almost impenetrable thanks to the thick canopy over her head. So why was he the one naked and she the one feeling exposed?

She wanted to see beneath the concealing ripple of the water that protected the best part of him from her gaze.

The words, the whispered request for him to come out of the water to her, clogged in her throat, victims of her inability to swallow. Before she could catch her breath he was gone again, kicking out once more for the far side of the pond.

She watched him swim back and forth, stopping briefly every five or six laps across the open space. And with each passing second the burning deep in her center leaped higher until she was a writhing mass of needs and nerves.

Finally, just when she thought she couldn't take any more, he drifted toward the dock and pulled himself up onto the worn boards.

Releasing a pent-up breath she'd been holding for who knows how long, she finally let her eyes slip shut in a prayer of thanksgiving—whether for the experience of seeing him or the thought that her torture was finally over, she wasn't sure.

She slumped against the tree closest to her, physically exhausted from the state of hyperawareness she'd been in for the past twenty minutes.

However, her relief lasted only seconds.

When she finally looked back, expecting to see Luke
putting his shorts on she was instead shocked to find him stretched out across the dock, hands pillowed behind his head, a wet stain from the water on his body spreading beneath him.

Completely naked.

And she nearly swallowed her tongue.

Yeah, she'd seen it before…a long time ago.

Had he grown? Or had her girlish memory just not realized exactly how large a man he really was?

A ray of moonlight sneaked through the branches surrounding the pond, like a stripe painted across his torso, dissecting him from one shoulder to one hip.

His knees were bent over the edge of the dock, his feet dangling into the water. He kicked gently, back and forth, almost as if the movement was a memory of the exertion he'd just expended in the water.

Her heart galloped in her chest. She honestly wondered if its pace was normal…if she could live through it moving that fast. Surely it was unnatural, her reaction to this man.

“You can come out now.”

For several seconds she thought about ignoring him. He was bluffing, taking a stab in the dark based on some small sound he'd heard in the woods.

“I know you're there, Ainsley.”

His words were soft, carrying on the summer breeze that blew between them. He even twisted his head, so that he looked directly at her.

He couldn't possibly see her…but it was clear that somehow he knew just where she was.

Pushing up from the ground, she bit back a groan as her muscles protested the awkward position she'd forced them into for longer than they liked.

As she stepped from the shadows, she straightened her shoulders and refused to blush at being caught spying on his midnight swim.

Walking halfway to the dock, she tried to keep her eyes on his face as she asked, “How'd you know?”

He laughed, glanced down at his perfectly hard erection and said, “Let's just say that I could feel your eyes on me.”

At his words, she couldn't keep the flush from ripping up her skin. She didn't know which was worse, being caught or knowing that he'd realized she was there from almost the first moment. And hadn't stopped her.

He had no modesty. He didn't try to hide himself or his arousal from her in the least.

“We never had any problems with the physical aspects of our relationship, Ainsley. In that, at least, we were perfectly compatible.”

What he left unsaid was that apparently they'd been terrible for each other in every other possible aspect of their relationship.

She couldn't help it. Her eyes slid down the length of his body. He was there for her, a feast for the eyes, and she was too close—both to him and the edge of her restraint—to deny herself.

The muscles at the center of her sex tightened with the sting of her denial, trying to convince her that what she really wanted was to cross the space between them
and join him on that dock. She wanted to run her hands down the rise and fall of his muscles, feel the pull of his skin as it slipped beneath her palms, lick the pearls of water that clung to the raised pucker of his nipples.

“Come here.” His words were husky, his eyes glittering beneath deceptively drowsy eyelids as her gaze finally jerked back to his face. He held a single hand out to her.