Within Reach Page 5

  Somehow curling up on the floor did seem to be above and beyond the call of duty. On the other hand, with a little ingenuity…“How about an air mattress and some blankets, maybe even a down sleeping bag…, that’s a nice idea.” She looked up to find Michael slowly shaking his head. “You think I’m crazy.”

  “No, no. I’m just…amazed. I wouldn’t have imagined you’d want to camp out.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t have imagined I’d be the type to camp out,” she quipped, but there was no censure in her voice, because Michael’s gentle manner precluded it. Besides, he was right. “There’s always a first time for everything,” she said, her voice soft, her gaze suddenly bound to his. He had such remarkable brown eyes, she thought. They were clear, warm, genuine, and made her feel very special. She needed that right now, when she felt incidental to so much of the rest of her life. She needed to be valued, and Michael did that. Basking in his approval, she glowed.

  “Danica?” he whispered, then swallowed hard. When she looked at him that way, it was all he could do not to take her in his arms.

  Her voice was scarcely louder than his whisper. “You shaved today.” His jaw was square, strong, smooth now where she recalled it had been rough. “Last time you hadn’t.”

  “I hadn’t expected to see anyone last time.”

  “But you couldn’t have been expecting—”

  “No. I didn’t know you were coming today. I was passing by on my way into town and I saw the car. But I always look to see who’s here. I was wondering when you’d be back.” He had been speaking very quietly. Now he swallowed again. “Does that bother you?”

  How could it bother her when she felt better than she had in weeks? “It’s kind of nice to know there’s someone here.”

  “We can be friends, then?”

  She burst into a smile. “I thought we already were.”

  “Do you want that?”

  “Very much.”

  “I’m glad.” He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from hers but realized that he had better do something if he hoped to behave himself. And he had to. She was off-limits…off-limits…off-limits. “Wanna go shopping?”

  “Shopping?”

  “For pots and pans and a sleeping bag and—”

  “Ah. Shopping. Sure. But you don’t have to—”

  “I’m your friend, aren’t I? What kind of a friend would let you wander around a strange town alone?”

  “I’ve been here before,” she chided, but she felt very pleased.

  “Being here has little to do with shopping here. Come.” His hand swallowed hers before she could refuse, and he was heading for the front door. “There are stores and there are stores. I know exactly where to find what you need. It’ll save time for both of us?”

  “Both of us?”

  At the door he turned. “If you refuse my offer, I’ll only spend the day worrying that you’ve been ripped off.”

  “Michael, I can’t take your time this way.”

  “Why not? I’m not complaining.”

  “What about your work? You said you were a writer.”

  “I am. But one of the nice things about being a writer is that my time is my own. I was going into town anyway. Now I’ll have company.”

  She held more tightly to his hand when he would have tugged her forward. “Are you sure?”

  He grinned. “I’m sure. Let’s go.” He had started to turn when she drew him back a final time.

  “Michael?” He was looking down at her, one brow arched as though prepared to do further battle if she resisted his offer. “Thank you.”

  The brow lowered and he seemed to melt. “For what?”

  “For stopping.” She tossed her head toward where her car sat, but the motion came out like a half-shrug and she lowered her eyes. She couldn’t forget that not an hour before she had been slumped over her steering wheel, crying her heart out. It still hurt when she thought of Blake, but she didn’t feel quite so alone. “For helping me over that.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You were here.”

  He cleared his throat and studied the slow movement of his thumb over her fingers. “Well, let’s just say we’re even then.”

  “Even?”

  “I was feeling pretty lonely myself.” The smile he produced was boyishly honest. “It’s nice to have a friend to play hooky with.”

  On impulse Danica threaded her arm through his and squeezed tight. She was in a new place with a new home and a new friend. If Blake had chosen not to come, that was his problem. She was going to enjoy herself!

  Taking Michael’s Blazer, which would more easily hold Danica’s purchases, they spent the next hours shopping for the things she would need if she intended to spend the night at her house.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he said out of the side of his mouth as she stood debating between two particularly beautiful handmade quilts they had found at a small shop in the Union Square group. He had set one arm straight against the counter she faced and had the other tucked in his pocket. His body was angled toward hers in a way that reflected the protectiveness she inspired. “It seems sacrilegious to be throwing one of these on the floor.” In truth, he didn’t like the idea of her spending the night on the floor—or spending the night alone, for that matter. Taking it one step further, what he really wanted was for her to stay with him, but he knew that was impossible.

  “No, no. It’ll be fine. This is something I’ll be able to use in the spare room once the beds are in. Much better than wasting money now on a sleeping bag or a bunch of blankets. In fact,” she thought aloud, “I think I’ll buy matching quilts while I’m at it. And throw pillows. Since we’re here now…” Her words trailed off as she sent him an apologetic glance. “Are you bored?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s a joy to watch you shop. You’re so enthusiastic about it.”

  “But still…”

  “Listen,” he said softly, putting an arm around her shoulder, “I’ve shopped with women before and I swore I’d never do it again. They pick things up, put them down, pick up something else, go back to the first, leave the store, return two minutes later, having changed their minds again, but this is different. You’re having fun and it’s catching. Do I look like I’m suffering?”

  He looked positively gorgeous. Suffering? “No. But I feel guilty.”

  “That’s your problem.” He flashed her a grin, gave her shoulder a squeeze and crooked a finger toward the saleswoman, who had been timidly hovering in the background, trying to busy herself by working on a new quilt while at the same time remaining accessible. “Have you got matching quilts to either of these two?”

  It happened that only one of the quilts had a mate, but it was the one Danica favored, so she was thrilled. After purchasing six coordinating throw pillows—three for each bed when the guest room was furnished, plenty for Danica to choose from tonight—they moved on.

  True to his word, Michael knew where to find what. Though he preferred to patronize local shops wherever possible—as had been the case with the quilts—he also knew of more practical places to shop for less esoteric things such as pots and pans. And he knew of the best place to stop for lunch, which happened to be an intimate chowder-and-salad house at the edge of Dock Square.

  “This is a sight more than I expected when I left Boston this morning,” Danica commented, knowing it was an understatement. When she had left Boston, her spirits had just about hit rock bottom. Now she felt distinctly renewed.

  Michael reveled in her pleasure. “Me, too. I had expected just another ho-hum day.”

  “I can’t believe your days are ho-hum. You can write. You can pick up and play hooky. You can come and go as you please.”

  He saw her frown. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was just envying you your lack of commitments but I’m just assuming that. I never asked whether you’re married or anything.” Her voice dropped to a self-deprecating whisper. “That was dumb of me.�
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  “No. You never asked because you didn’t have to. You know the answer.”

  She looked at him for a long time, then slowly nodded. “Why no wife?”

  He shrugged. “There was never any need to get married. I’ve had intense relationships, but thanks to the women’s movement, none of them ended in marriage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His cheeks reddened for a minute, a sensitivity that took the edge off what might otherwise have sounded chauvinistic. “The liberated woman is less apt to require a commitment.”

  “You sound relieved.”

  He thought about that for a while, finally choosing his words with care. “I haven’t been ready for marriage. I travel—doing research and all—and I enjoy that. When I’m home, there’s my writing to do and God knows writing is a solitary profession. I do have friends, so when I get lonely, I pick up the phone.” His voice lowered on a sadder vein. “There are times though, times when I wish…”

  “Wish what?”

  He fiddled with the saltshaker, turning it clockwise, then counterclockwise. “There are times when I wish I did have a wife and children, times when my house is too quiet, when I’d give just about everything to have a family materialize and be there with me. My family. A wife who would sit talking softly with me late at night. Children who would look a little like each of us, who’d be half angel and half devil but thoroughly lovable.” He paused for breath, then gathered the courage to look up.

  Danica sat staring at him, her eyes large and moist. She blinked once and tried to smile, but it took her a minute to garner that control. It frightened her that he should share her dreams. “I can understand why you’re a writer,” she finally managed. “You express yourself well.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure I like what I express sometimes.”

  “Your thoughts are beautiful.”

  “I don’t know about that. They’re pretty selfish. I’m not sure I deserve a family. It’d be like having my cake and eating it too. If I’d wanted children now, I should have made a commitment before.”

  Danica thought of Blake and of a similar conversation she had had with her mother. But Michael seemed so much younger than Blake, both in years and behavior. He was spontaneous where Blake was disciplined, casual where Blake was formal. She couldn’t ever remember Blake’s hair falling across his brow as Michael’s did now. “Things aren’t that simple sometimes. You said it yourself. You’ve wanted to travel. And write.” She paused. “We all make choices at certain points in our lives. That doesn’t mean we never have second thoughts.”

  Michael knew she was speaking personally. Her voice held sadness and there was the same haunted cast to her eyes that he had seen when she’d been on the beach a month before. “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Ever have second thoughts about the choices you’ve made.”

  She crinkled up her nose and forced a smile. “I’m like anyone else. I have moments when everything seems wrong.” They were both remembering the moments she had spent that morning sitting in her car in tears. “But,” she went on in a tone that reminded Michael of the stoicism he had detected in her on the beach that first day, “I have an awful lot that most people don’t have.”

  He wanted to go back, to talk about what had seemed wrong to her before, but the waitress chose that moment to bring their lunch, and needing to see Danica smile, he redirected the conversation to more chatty topics involving Kennebunkport. Later, though, in the supermarket, he sought to appease his curiosity.

  “Tell me what you have, Danica.”

  “I have tea bags, half a dozen eggs, a quart of orange—”

  “Not that,” he chided. “I can see what’s in the cart.” They were leisurely strolling down the aisle with paper supplies, Michael wheeling, Danica ambling beside. “When we were in the restaurant, you mentioned that you have more in life than most people. Tell me. I want to know.”

  She reached out to remove a roll of paper towels from the shelf and set it in the cart. “I have the usual, just more of it.”

  He sensed a modesty in her. “Nice home?”

  “You’ve seen it.”

  “Not here.” Again he was scolding, again, though, in the most gentle of tones. “Tell me about Boston.”

  She took a deep breath and grasped the edge of the cart as they walked. “We live on Beacon Hill.”

  “A town house?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s three stories high, with a charming front walk and a courtyard in back. We share the courtyard with our neighbors.”

  “The only town house I was ever in on the Hill was weird. It had the kitchen and living room—”

  “On the second floor, with the bedrooms above and the family rooms below?” She laughed at his expression, which clearly said he thought the arrangement was awful. “That’s how ours is. It’s really the most practical setup. We have good space front to back and top to bottom, with next to none side to side. The stairs are steep and long. It makes sense to have the kitchen and living room in the middle.”

  “I guess.” They had stopped at the end of the aisle, moving on only when the approach of another shopper necessitated it. “Still, it must be hard to get used to.”

  “Not really. The rooms may be narrow, but they’re big. We entertain on the first and second floors. Anyway, my dad’s place in Washington isn’t that much different.”

  “You lived in Washington rather than Connecticut?”

  She shook her head but had no desire to elaborate. “Do you have a dog?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A dog. Do you have one?” She pointed to the shelf lined with dog food, but she was eyeing Michael speculatively. “I can picture you running along the beach with an Irish setter at your heels.”

  “I had one,” he said, stunned. “It died last year. You had to know.” But she shook her head. “That’s uncanny.” After a minute he took a breath. “One part of me wants to get another. I look in the papers every week. The other part still mourns Hunter. He was a beauty.”

  “How long did you have him?”

  “Nine years. I bought him when I moved up here. It seemed a great place to have a dog.”

  “Get another,” she urged, suddenly animated.

  “I think you want one.”

  The animation waned. “I do, but it’s out of the question.”

  “I’m sure lots of people on Beacon Hill own dogs, for protection if nothing else.”

  “I often see them out walking. But it’s cruel. A dog needs room to run.”

  “You could have one up here.”

  “Blake hates dogs,” she stated quietly.

  “But if the dog is here and he’s there…”

  “The house up here is for the two of us.” She gave a rueful laugh. “If he ever makes it. And anyway, the dog would still have to live in the city. It’s not like we’ll be here fulltime.”

  They moved on toward the check-out counter then, with Danica wishing she could live here full-time and Michael wishing she had the dog and no Blake. Both knew they were dreaming, but dreams were fun from time to time. And Danica knew for a fact that she was having fun.

  Later, after they stowed her purchases in her house, they headed for the beach. It was breezy but comfortable, as it hadn’t been that day a month before. Though she wore the same stylish jacket she had worn then, now it lay open over her soft, moss-green sweater and winter-white slacks. Michael, too, was more at ease with the elements than he had been then. They walked slowly, pausing occasionally to look at a cluster of seaweed that had washed up, moving on by mutual and unspoken consent.

  “What are you writing now?” Danica asked, pushing her hair behind one ear so that it wouldn’t blow in her face when she looked up at him. He was tall and sturdy. She liked that.

  “Now? A short history of professional sports in America. It’s something light, something I was in the mood to do.”

  “Doesn’t sound all that light to me,” she said. She
wondered if he knew she had played tennis, wondered if he would say anything about it. She hoped not. She didn’t want her past to intrude. Not just now. “There must be a whole lot of research to do.”

  “Yeah, but it’s fun research, especially the interviews. I’ve talked with some of the old-time greats. Hockey, baseball, boxing—you name it. I needed a change of pace after last year.”

  “Last year?”

  “Then it was an analysis of religious and racial bigotry as a function of economic depressions and recessions.”

  “A mouthful. But fascinating.” And a wonderful diversion. “Is the book out yet?”

  “Next month.”

  She grinned. “Congratulations.”

  He grinned back. “Thanks.”

  It took her a minute to catch her breath. “What was your theory?”

  “That bigotry is heightened by economic crises. It’s nothing people haven’t known for years, but few have taken the time to document it.”

  “You were able to?”

  “Easily. History speaks bluntly. In times of economic stress people look out for themselves. They blame their woes on the next guy, particularly if he’s weaker or less able to defend himself.”

  “Even if he’s stronger, I’d think. There’s many an ethnic or religious group that’s been superior in one field or another and because of that has become the bigot’s target.”

  Michael beamed. He had known she would be politically astute. “I discussed that at length in the book. I’ll give you a copy as soon as I get mine.”

  “I can buy one.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’ll be my pleasure.”

  They had come to an outcropping of rocks. Michael jumped up on the first, held out his hand to Danica, who readily followed him. When they reached the top, they perched on adjacent boulders.

  “How many books have you written?”

  “Four.”

  “All published?” He nodded. “Then it must be old hat to you, having another book appear on the shelves.”

  “It’s never old hat. There’s always the excitement and the pride. And the fear.”

  “Of how it’ll do?”

  “You bet. As it is, the books I write aren’t blockbuster material.”