What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (12 page)

“Can’t see a damn thing,” she muttered, then laughed.
I can’t use that language in front of Samantha, but my posters don’t mind
. Scrambling impatiently off the bed, she found an old shoebox on her makeshift desk and rummaged for her magnifying glass. Grasping it, she blew away a puff of dust, then held it close to the pages.

There—a man with dark hair… hard to make out the face
. In the poorly reproduced black-and-white picture, the image was nothing more than a collection of dots, now that she could
see it close up. Still, the way he stood, the line of his jaw… she’d seen him before. His high cheekbones and the upsweep of his eyes were something like her own.
Is he someone I saw at the Reservation?
She clenched at the thought.

No
, she thought.
I’m sure it’s because he’s been at other concerts
. She continued looking to see if she could uncover a clearer photo of him.
There… standing between members of Topic. Who
is
he?

Reading each of the names, she counted bodies, correlating names to faces. The fourth from the left. “Ken Casmalia.”
Gotcha. Is there something familiar about his name? Next concert … I’ll find you
.

It was something to dream about.

Night had fallen in Milford-Haven, but it never fell dark enough for Jack Sawyer to feel completely unworried. Once, the velvet night had been a welcome refuge. Now it seemed to be an invitation into anxiety.

The conversation with the reporter went well enough. Now I just have to wait
. That was the thing about nighttime: he couldn’t see what was going on, couldn’t reach out his powerful arms to control things that needed controlling.

Then there’s Sally
. It was true, she brought him a measure of comfort. Yet their continued relationship implied more of a connection than he was willing to acknowledge. Still, he hadn’t come up with a logical reason to stop seeing her.

Much as he found her demeanor in the restaurant a bit overbearing each morning, he had to admit she was discreet.
And she conceals more down-home good sense and feminine
essence behind that apron than most women manage to reveal in a black evening gown
.

Sally knows how to play the game, and I like that. Southern women are smart about men
. They generally didn’t try to prove their intellectual superiority the way other women—especially those from Northern California—did. He was perfectly aware that Sally often got what she wanted from him. But she did it with some subtlety.

Tonight, as always, she’d arrived and parked in the back, then made herself as comfortable in his kitchen as she would’ve in her own. She’d prepared one of her superb dinners. “Oh, this is nothin’ but a little fried chicken and taters,” she’d said, spooning that delicious gravy into a cradle of the smoothest mashed potatoes he’d ever tasted.
She’s good. She knows it. She makes no fuss about it
.

She’d kept him at bay while she cooked, slipping out from under his embraces with little giggles and excuses about his getting himself burned. But it was after dinner now, and he knew she was expecting him to make his move.

“Well,” she said. It sounded more like
wail
. “Shall we have some coffee in the livin’ room?”

He considered the coffee idea for a moment, and knew it would be good. But already he had a taste for something else. He pushed himself back from the table, the chair making a loud scraping noise on the hardwood floor. Sally looked up, slightly startled. The faintly alarmed look in her eyes sparked his need.

He stood quickly, closing the distance between himself and where she stood busying herself with silverware. He liked the fact that he could still move with surprising agility for a man his size. In one step he loomed behind her. His arm circled her
waist, and he lifted her off the floor.

She gasped as he lock-stepped her past the sofa and down the hall. “Jack,” she spoke with difficulty, “just hold your horses now.”

He chuckled at her quaint little expression.

“Jack, couldn’t I even take off my apron?”

By then, he’d shuffled her into the bedroom. He threw himself backwards onto the bed, still holding her against him.

“Oooh!” Sally was winded by the fall, and they both began to laugh.

“Yes, you can take off your apron, Sally.” He kept his voice low and seductive, a rasping whisper to tickle her ear, his tone both inviting and menacing. He liked the notion of scaring her slightly, using it to push her over the edge into passion.

He got up and stood over her. Sally lay on the bed looking up at him, waiting. He stared into her eyes while he removed his shirt. Then he started on her clothes, rolling her to untie the apron sash, pulling off her skirt and blouse. Sally said nothing, submitting to the moment, and to the man.

When they were naked, she closed her eyes. “Jack, Jack…” she murmured softly. To Jack it sounded almost like “Jake,” but he liked the sound of it. She arched her head back now, and he could see she was enjoying herself. It excited him further, until he could no longer contain himself.

Sally O’Mally held Jack, understanding, if not sharing, the intensity. She wasn’t surprised when Jack immediately fell into a heavy sleep, still on top of her.

His lovemaking had been gruff, but earnest. She clutched a corner of the sheet and tried to see his face, but it was too
close, and the room too dark. She enjoyed the excitement of Jack, the raw masculinity. It reminded her she was a woman.
But I still don’t really know how much he cares
.

Turning her head, she looked toward his bureau, a slice of it visible in the moonlight slanting through the window.
That single wooden box still sits on top of it. No pictures. No knick-knacks
.

She lay there wondering how long she could continue breathing under Jack’s weight, and yet she hated to wake him. She remembered the first time she’d slept with him, how she hadn’t felt the weight of a man in so long she’d almost forgotten the sensation, and had welcomed even the discomfort of it.

As quietly as she could, she edged out from under him and drifted into sleep.

Jack Sawyer stirred, unsure how long he’d slept. He pushed up onto one elbow and looked at the angled light streaking across Sally’s face.
She looks so soft, so trusting. When she stared up at me tonight she almost got to me
.

In his relationship with Sally, he felt twinges of tenderness that’d been missing for twenty years. He found it reassuring these qualities were still there. But he didn’t think about it for long. He rolled onto his side and sank again into sleep, lost in his own separate thoughts.

Sally O’Mally woke when it was still dark, her internal alarm going off as usual, whether she wanted it to or not.

She lay still for a few minutes, looking up at the ceiling.
Gotta get home, get changed. If I actually lived here, I wouldn’t
have to run somewhere to get ready for the day. But Jack still won’t even discuss the idea
.

Pressing her lips together in the darkened room, she considered how little her personal relationship with Jack seemed to be affecting his life.
Does he take me seriously?
She thought about the addition onto her restaurant—the one he always promised to build.
If he ever does build it he’ll pro’bly love the new buildin’ more than he loves me
. That surely was a sad thing to have to admit. But what might be worse, was he might not even keep his promise to build it.
That man keeps promises like a politician
.

Knowing by now it must be five a.m., she slipped out from under the worn comforter. She padded quietly around the end of the bed, pausing at the bureau to stare at the dusty box.
Wish I could open it
. She glanced at Jack, who still snored undisturbed. Her fingers touched the edge of the box’s hinged top, and she began to lift it carefully.

The sudden, explosive sound of Jack’s cough ripped through the quiet. Startled, Sally jerked her hand away from the box, allowing its top to fall. Heart beating fast, she took a step to the edge of the bed and reached for the robe lost in the folds of the comforter.

“Ooww!” she yelped. While her attention was focused on retrieving the robe, Jack had slipped his hand out from under the covers to slap her on the behind. He flipped the light on to get a better look at her.

“Ja-a-ck,” she wailed, pronouncing his name as though it had three syllables. She scowled at him and smoothed her tousled hair. Twisting the belt tighter around his enormous robe, she turned and marched down the hall.

Jack Sawyer lay there listening to water running in the sink. A few moments later, he heard the back door close.
The woman is diligent about getting the restaurant open on time
.

When he gave her bottom those ritual morning slaps, Jack never knew whether he did it to wake himself from the pleasant stupor of love, or to teach her not to get used to kindness.

Either way, it brought him back to reality—the reality of Jack Sawyer, who needed no one.

Pre-dawn wind rose off still-dark water, scudded across waves, lifted over bluffs and rustled through trees, carrying the scent of ocean and pine into Miranda’s bedroom. Settled under her light comforter, she clasped her pillow and inhaled the aromas that blended with her drowsy reverie.

There it is again—that mental picture. A canopy of stars sparkles overhead through a perfect circle of tall, sheltering branches. Where am I? A high, protected place, perfect stillness arcing overhead, waves lapping below. A safe place that welcomes and understands
.

Yes, this place is familiar
.

Long ago—as long ago as childhood—she’d written the words:
where mountains meet ocean, where art meets science, where heart meets heart
. Later in her teenage diary, she’d drawn three pictures: a mountain at the edge of a sea; two overlapping hearts; a constellation reflected in a well. Even
then, she’d known someday the drawings would become paintings.

Where are those drawings now? Oh!
She threw back the covers and sat up, using her feet to feel in the dark for her slippers. Moving carefully up the stairs, she stepped into her studio and shielded her eyes while she turned on one of the angle-armed desk lamps. Spotting the boxes she’d seen earlier, she pulled one out from under her desk, then sat cross-legged on the floor.
Here they are!
Lifting a string-tied portfolio, she opened it carefully. The drawings had yellowed at the edges but were otherwise just as she remembered.

Here was the first—and it’d become the first painting—a mountain-ocean image: earth contours rising to a sculpted ridge then plunging into the sea; tall pines spearing up from the bluff; boulders anchored off shore.

It’s amazing how closely it resembles this very area. I’ll have to include it in my new journal. Maybe I’ll call it my “Journey Home” journal
. She thought back to the day she’d taken that spontaneous drive from the Bay Area. She’d headed south on the 101, then—wanting to visit a piece of the coast she’d never driven—she’d taken the 46 west till she connected with Highway 1. From there, her favorite part of the drive had begun.
Why is it I always feel better driving north? Mountains to the right, ocean to the left, road winding ahead… it just felt right
.

She’d seen the distinct coastal profile from her car window. Happening upon a real place that so closely mirrored what she’d envisioned, she’d pulled off the road to investigate.
The first time I saw the coastline of Milford-Haven…. The place chose me as much as I chose it… drawing me to my new home
.

Within months, she’d moved. No one else in her life had liked the idea. Her parents objected. “What kind of social life will you have?” Her colleagues advised against it. “If you want to be an artist, go to New York, not to some out-of-the-way place where no one will ever discover you.” Her sister couldn’t imagine being away from the city. “But I’ll come visit.” And Zelda threatened to drop her as a client. “Now that I’ve made you a hot up-and-coming San Francisco artist, you want to
move?”