Key of Light
Page 35

“You miss him.”
“You got that right.”
She plucked a blade of grass, ran it idly through her fingers. “I have some friends from college. We were so close, and I guess we all thought we’d be close forever. Now we’re all scattered and hardly see each other. Once or twice a year if we can all manage it. We talk on the phone or through E-mail now and then, but it’s not the same. I miss them. I miss who we were when we were friends, and that telepathy you develop so that you know what the other’s thinking, or what she’d do in some situation. Is it that way for you?”
“Pretty much.” He reached over, toyed with the ends of her hair in the same absent way she toyed with the blade of grass. “But we go back to being kids together. None of us are big on phone calls. Maybe because Brad and I end up on the phone through most of our workday. E-mail does the job. Jordan, he’s the E-mail king.”
“I met him for about ninety seconds at a book signing, in Pittsburgh, about four years ago. All dark and handsome, with a dangerous gleam in his eye.”
“You want dangerous?”
It made her laugh. He was sitting on a ratty blanket eating bucket chicken while his big, silly dog barked at a squirrel that was ten feet up a tree.
Then she was flat on her back, his body pressed to hers, and the laugh died in her throat.
His mouth was dangerous. Foolish of her to have forgotten that. However affable and easy he appeared on the surface, there were storms inside him. Hot, whippy storms that could crash over the unwary before they could think about taking shelter.
So she didn’t think at all, but let it rage. And let that secret part of herself, that part she’d never risked exposing, slide out. And take, even as it was taken.
“How’s this working for you?” he murmured as he fixed that amazing mouth on her throat.
“So far, so good.”
He lifted his head, looked down at her. And his heart shuddered in his chest. “Something here. Some big something here.”
“I don’t think—”
“Yes, you do.” Impatience, potent and unexpected, snapped out. “You may not want to think—I’m not real keen on it myself, but you do. I really hate using the obvious metaphor, but this is like turning a key in a lock. I can hear the goddamn click.”
He pushed up, dragged an unsteady hand through his hair. “I’m not ready to hear any goddamn click.”
She sat up quickly, brushed fussily at the front of her shirt. It threw her off balance that she could find his temper both irritating and arousing at the same time. “You think I want to hear one? I’ve got enough on my mind right now without you clicking around in my head. I need to find the first key. I’ve got to work this out. I need to find a job. And I don’t even want a stupid job. I want . . .”
“What? What do you want?”
“I don’t know.” She scrambled to her feet. There was a fury inside her. She didn’t know where it came from or where it needed to go. Turning away, she stared at the house across the river, folded her arms firmly over her chest. “And I always know what I want.”
“You’re one up on me there.” He rose, but didn’t go to her. Whatever was pumping inside him—anger, need, fear—was too unstable to risk touching her.
The breeze was playing with the ends of her hair, as he had. All those tumbling clouds the color of old gold, like something out of a painting. She looked so slim, so perfect, standing there, half turned away from him while the dying sun shot a thin line of fire along the rise of western hills.
“The only thing I’ve been absolutely sure I wanted . . . ever,” he realized, “is you.”
She glanced back as nervous wings began to stir in her belly. “I don’t imagine I’m the only woman you’ve wanted to sleep with.”
“No. Actually, the first was Joley Ridenbecker. We were thirteen. And that particular desire was never fulfilled.”
“Now you’re making a joke of it.”
“I’m not. Not really.” He stepped toward her and his voice was gentle. “I wanted Joley, as much as I knew what that meant at thirteen. It was intense, even painful, and kind of sweet. Eventually I found out what that meant. I wanted other women along the way. I even loved one, which is why I know the difference between wanting a woman, and wanting you. If it was just sex, it wouldn’t piss me off.”
“It’s hardly my fault you’re pissed off.” She scowled at him. “And you don’t look or sound as if you are.”
“I tend to get really reasonable when I’m seriously annoyed. It’s a curse.” He picked up the ball Moe spat at his feet, then threw it with a strong whiplash of arm. “And if you think it’s a joy to be able to see both sides of an argument, to see the validity on each end, let me tell you, it’s a pain in the ass.”
“Who was she?”
He shrugged, then picked up the ball Moe returned, threw it again. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I’d say it does. And that she still does.”
“It just didn’t work out.”
“Fine. I should be getting back now.” She walked back to kneel on the blanket and tidy the remains of their impromptu picnic.
“That’s a skill I admire, and nobody does it like a woman. The implied ‘fuck you,’ ” he explained, then shot the ball in the air for Moe once more. “She left me. Or I didn’t go with her. Depends on your point of view. We were together the best part of a year. She was a reporter for the local station, moved up to weekend anchor, then evening anchor. She was good, and we got to have all these arguments and discussions over the impact and value of our particular news medium. Which is sexier than it may sound. Anyway, we planned to get married, move to New York. Eventually, on the moving part. Then she got an offer from an affiliate up there. She went. I stayed.”
“Why did you stay?”
“Because I’m George f**king Bailey.” The ball burst out of his hand again like a rocket.
“I don’t understand.”
“George Bailey, giving up his dreams of travel and adventure to stay in his hometown and rescue the old savings and loan. I’m no Jimmy Stewart, but the Dispatch sure as hell turned out to be my savings and loan. My stepfather, Dana’s dad, had been ill. My mother shifted some of the responsibilities of editor in chief to me. I assumed it was temporary, until Joe got back on his feet. But the doctors, and my mother, wanted him out of the cold winters. And they wanted, deserved, to enjoy a retirement period. She threatened that if I didn’t take over for her at the paper, she would shut it down. My mother doesn’t make idle threats.”