The One Safe Place (15 page)

He shook his head. “It was just the right time. He was ready, and I was there, that's all.”

“Please don't minimize what you did. It was wonderful.” She wished so much that he would accept her gratitude. It was like a river swelling inside her, and she needed to let it flow naturally to its destination—this extraordinary man who had changed Spencer's life forever, and by extension, hers.

“I don't know how you knew what he needed. But everything you said was so wise. So perfect.”

He smiled and shrugged lightly. “I'm glad it worked,” he said. “And I'm glad you don't mind that he spoke to me first. I know you've been a little concerned that he might be getting too attached.”

She flushed, and was relieved that the darkness
probably kept it from showing. “It's not that, exactly, it's just that—”

“It's okay. I understand. I'm concerned about it myself. But I think tonight was different. He just needed someone objective to talk to. He knew you'd say he wasn't responsible, but he'd always think you said it out of blind love. I think it was easier to open up to someone on the outside.”

“I don't care who he talked to first. I'm just ecstatic that he was able to talk at all.”

He smiled, then. A real smile. “Me, too,” he said.

“And I'm so grateful you were willing to listen. But how did you know what to say? How did you know what he needed to hear?”

“I didn't.” He turned briefly to look at the fire. The saxophone was dwindling off now, like the echo of someone crying. Outside, a rumble of thunder spilled across the cloudy night. “I guessed, that's all. I thought maybe it would be the same for him as it was for me.”

She wished the light were better. Fading firelight was tricky. It suggested movement where there was none. She touched his arm, which was stretched out along the back of the sofa.

“You mean when your wife died.”

“Yes.” Even if she hadn't felt the muscles tighten under her hand, she would have recognized the tension in his voice. “When Melissa died, I was sick with guilt. Sicker, really, than Spencer has been, be
cause I didn't have his courage. I felt that I'd failed her. I thought I should've been able to save her.”

“But she died of cancer, didn't she? No one can really—”

“I know. But I loved her. I thought I should have been able to do something. Bring in a new doctor, unearth a cure, coax a true miracle out of God himself. She'd been gone for nearly two years before I accepted the truth.”

“And what is that?”

He shrugged. “That life simply doesn't come with guarantees. We have no idea what's around the corner for any of us. All we can do is try to make each other happy for whatever time we're given.”

“And did you?” She had heard no weakness in his voice, no threat of tears, but suddenly she heard those things in her own. She took a breath and tried to sound stronger.

“Did I what?” His looked at her, his eyes sparkling in the fluid light from the rain-spangled window.

“Did you play games with her and make her laugh? Did you give her lots of hugs and kisses? Did you make your Melissa happy?”

He didn't answer for a moment, and she wondered if she'd trespassed. Perhaps she should not have spoken Melissa's name. But she felt so close to him right now, like people who had been through a war together. She felt as if she could say anything to him.

“Yes,” he said. He smiled, and she knew it was all right. “Yes, I honestly think I did.”

She squeezed his arm, and then they sat together without speaking for a little while, watching the fire burn down. The tongues of flame grew smaller and finally disappeared, leaving behind just a painted orange glow in the wide stone hearth.

The CD changed with a tiny click, a subtle whirr. Another jazz disc began, but this one was less mournful, more romantic, with an unapologetic, sweeping duet from saxophone and violin.

Reed held out his hand suddenly.

“Let's celebrate,” he said. “Dance with me.”

She wasn't much of a dancer, but she couldn't have said no, not tonight. He turned up the volume a little, just enough to fill the room with soft notes and slow drums. He stood, and then, tugging on her hand, he pulled her up and into his arms.

He was so tall. Barefoot, she barely reached above his shoulder. But their bodies fit well in spite of that, and the music wrapped itself around them like a soft blue ribbon of sound. The Navajo carpet under their feet was soft and warm.

They moved easily together, small movements that were almost dancing but not quite, their bodies doing only what the music said they must and no more.

The rest was just touching. Just being close and being safe. No longer being afraid. And no longer being alone.

She shut her eyes, absorbing the moment through
her fingers against his chest, through her hips where his fingers rested lightly on her. Through her nose, where the cedar and pine scent of the room mingled with the clean, intoxicating man-smell of him.

It was bliss. Outside, the sky flashed with lightning and the wind tore at the tired red leaves, but in here everything was still and sweet. Spencer slept quietly above them, high in his sheltered loft, and all was right with her world.

Somewhere, though, in the middle of the song, when she was too relaxed to see it coming, too drugged to mount a defense, the peace and pleasure spiked into something sharper, something with teeth and fire.

His breath changed, and so did hers. Their bodies grew restless and, without conscious thought, they found themselves pressing a little harder, shifting with small fevered nuances, seeking the perfect connection.

They danced less, searched more. Reed's hands tightened on her hips, pressing, and her hands fisted into his shirt, pulling. He lowered his head, and his mouth touched her ear. His breath sizzled down her neck, down her spine, like an invisible fall of air that spilled into a pool of bubbling awareness hidden deep in the center of her body.

She turned her face toward his, murmuring wordlessly. She found his neck, where a swollen pulse beat slowly, and then his jaw, which was hard, jutting satin and so sweet she found herself tasting it, running wet
lips along its angled planes, up to his ear. She kissed his ear, taking the small, tight lobe between her teeth.

He groaned, the sky flashed and suddenly he was kissing her. It wasn't a gentle sugar-apple kiss, not like the first time. This time it was hungry and wild, hot with lightning and wet with rain. It was deep and rough and so miraculously alive she felt alive, too. Alive, and gloriously immortal.

She couldn't get enough. She opened her mouth. She put her hands behind his head and drew him closer, deeper. She stood on tiptoe and begged for more with every outstretched inch of her body.

But suddenly, without warning, he lifted his head and pulled away. Just an inch—but the inch that mattered, the inch that meant the kiss was over. He shook his head, such a tiny motion that she thought—wanted to think—she had imagined it.

But she hadn't. Slowly, so slowly, he peeled her arms from around his neck. Holding her hands at her sides, he carefully disengaged, gazing down at her the entire time with a painful tenderness.

Her whole body protested the loss of him. When she said his name, her voice was taut with thwarted need. Little pinpricks of disappointment flashed where once she had felt him against her.

Gradually, though, the flashing died down, just as the fire had slowly disappeared in the hearth. No fire could last forever, not without fuel, not without anything to burn.

And though he looked the same as ever, an invis
ible shield seemed somehow to have risen up around him, deflecting her desperation, rejecting her emotions. They bounced back to her as surely as the sounds of his CD, that sad saxophone and that low, lonely violin, bounced off the pine walls of this big, beautiful room.

He wasn't unkind. He was merely unreachable.

Finally, when he must have seen that she could breathe again, he spoke.

“This isn't a good idea,” he said.

She looked at him, feeling the lovely sexual heat dying away.

“You know it isn't,” he said. “Don't you, Faith?”

She made herself think more clearly. Made herself think of something other than that primitive drive toward life and sex and the momentary oblivion she could have found in his arms.

She made herself think about Spencer, and Doug and Grace, and Melissa and New York City, and her career and Firefly Glen. And death. And all the things she simply didn't know about tomorrow.

“No,” she said softly. “It isn't a good idea.”

He reached over and clicked off the CD player. The room fell suddenly silent. The only sound was the beating of the rain against the windows. It would be very, very cold tomorrow.

“We should get some sleep,” he said. “It's late.”

“Yes,” she said numbly. What else could she say? “I suppose we should.”

“Tomorrow is a big day. Today, really. It's Halloween already, isn't it?”

She had gathered her senses enough to notice that he was now treating her very much as she treated Spencer. Like a child, someone to be protected. As if he knew she would, if left unguided, do dangerous and foolish things.

And she would have. Oh, yes, she would have.

Ironic, really, that all this time she'd been worrying about Spencer—Spencer misunderstanding their status here, Spencer growing too attached. Spencer wanting more from Reed than he had any right to ask, more than Reed was interested in giving.

Ironic that not once, in all these weeks, had she seen where the biggest danger really lay.

Right here.

In her own body.

Right here in her own heart.

A
FTER SUCH AN EMOTIONAL
night, Faith was afraid she'd never fall asleep, but when she finally did, she slept well, and she slept hard. When she woke up, the cloudless, ice-blue Halloween morning was almost over. The clock by her bed said eleven-forty.

Oh, dear. She hadn't slept this late since she was Spencer's age. She jumped up with a groan.

And came face-to-face with a smiling brown-eyed man.

A man who was, thank goodness, made of straw.

Sometime during the morning, Spencer had brought Sergeant Braveheart in and arranged him on her chair. He had a plate of pumpkin muffins balanced on his lumpy lap.

Around his neck hung a sign hand-lettered with wobbly orange and black crayons. Happy Halloween, it read. And then, down in the corner, a bold adult hand had dashed in a postscript. “Carving jack-o'-lanterns in the clinic. Come play.”

Suddenly as excited as a child, Faith showered quickly, threw on her most comfortable jeans, fur-lined boots and a thick gold turtleneck sweater,
wolfed down a pumpkin muffin and hurried downstairs.

It was hard not to dawdle just a little, once she got outside and saw how spectacular the day was. A million leaves had fallen in the night, turning the ground into a brilliant red, green and brown oriental carpet. The air was cold and raw and made her shiver in a delicious, magically alive sort of way.

She laughed out loud, startling the ducks, who were hunkered down in the grass irritably, obviously not half as enchanted with the weather as she was. Their pond was as glassy as silver ice.

“Sorry, guys,” she said. “But I love it.” She spun in a circle, just once, for no reason at all, and then continued on toward the clinic.

Reed had planned to close at noon for the holiday, and only one car was left in the parking area. When Faith opened the clinic door, she was surprised to see that the entire lobby area was covered with newspapers, and at least six grinning, scowling, winking, fully carved jack-o'-lanterns already sat on the waiting-room chairs.

Spencer and Tigger squatted on the floor, scooping out yet another bright round pumpkin. They both looked up as the clinic door chimed out her arrival.

“Aunt Faith! We thought you'd never wake up! We've only got three left.” Spencer pointed excitedly at the jack-o'-lanterns. Tigger walked over and sniffed one, just to show her where to look. “See how many we've already done?”

Justine was at the receptionist's desk, but she, too, was working on a pumpkin. “Yeah, Faith,” she drawled lazily with a teasing smile. She pointed her tiny, serrated knife reproachfully. “How come you're such a lazy-bones today? The rest of us have been carving our little hearts out for hours.”

“Sorry,” Faith said, bending down to give Spencer a kiss. He was sticky all over. Fat beige seeds and strands of orange pulp stuck to his cheeks and hands. “I didn't know we had a pumpkin party planned.”

Spencer gave her a long-suffering look. “It's Halloween,” he explained patiently. He had a pumpkin seed in his hair, and he wriggled impatiently as she tried to pluck it out.

She had to laugh. “Oh, yeah? I don't remember you feeling the need to carve a hundred pumpkins last year.”

He shook his head. “We're in Firefly Glen this year,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Glenners are a little bit obsessive about their holidays.”

That must have come straight from Reed. She'd never heard Spencer use the word “obsessive” in his life. And the way he said “Glenners.” It was one-hundred percent possessive. He might just as well have said “We Glenners.”

But she couldn't bring herself to worry about all that today. Today was for celebrating. She smiled over at Justine. “Where's Reed?”

Justine rolled her eyes. “With a patient. Suzie Strickland. Only person in Firefly Glen self-centered
enough to make poor Reed work on Halloween. As if her dogs couldn't get their shots any old day. But they're almost done, thank goodness. After that, I'm sliding that sign to Closed, and we're out of here!”

Suzie Strickland. Faith had a sudden image of a gamine, dark-haired beauty, furiously stalking away, leaving Mike Frome helplessly ensnared in Justine's net. Suzie Strickland, who was one jagged corner of the painful teenage love triangle Faith had glimpsed in front of the pet store that day.

Uh-oh. Maybe she should take Spencer outside to feed the stoic, frozen ducks. It might be better to miss the tense encounter when Suzie came out to pay her bill.

But she had no time to put her thought into action. At that instant the door to the patient's room opened, and Suzie came out, with two large, gorgeous golden retrievers straining at their leashes, eager to meet Tigger.

Tigger, who had no idea he was just a half-pint puppy, went trotting up to introduce himself. Spencer tried unsuccessfully to hold him, but luckily Suzie's dogs were friendly. They did a lot of embarrassingly intimate sniffing and finally decided the new guy was okay.

Justine made a face. “Yuck,” she said. “Dogs are so gross.”

That, of course, was the wrong thing for any employee of a veterinary clinic to say to anyone. But it was particularly insensitive to say to Suzie Strickland,
who obviously adored her two dogs. They were glossy and healthy and well behaved. They had clearly been given a ton of intelligent love.

“Not as gross,” Suzie said, scowling, “as some people I know.”

Justine smiled. She might be thoughtless, but she wasn't stupid, and she'd seen that response coming a mile off. “Yeah, well, you always did hang out with some pretty skanky people.”

That did it. Faith guessed that, even at the best of times, Suzie Strickland didn't have a tenth of Justine Millner's dexterity with the conversational rapier. A politician's daughter, Justine had been bred to the quick, smiling thrust. Suzie was a street fighter, and she bled messily when she'd been hit. But she hit back.

She stared at Justine now, breathing heavily. Justine kept smoothly writing out the bill for the dogs' shots, munching placidly on her gum.

“You know what, Justine?” Suzie said between clenched teeth. “You are a trashy bitch. I can't even tell you what a mean, trashy tramp I think you are.”

Justine tore off the bill at the perforation and handed it to Suzie. “You said trashy twice,” she observed. “Vocabulary meltdown?”

“No, there just aren't enough words to describe how awful you are.” Suzie had her gloves off now, and Faith could see this was going to end ugly.

Spencer was watching curiously, though he didn't come over to hide behind Faith, which was a good
sign. All three dogs began to pace nervously, smelling distress in the air, perhaps, and going on the alert.

“And as long as I'm being honest here.” Suzie kept her voice low in spite of her obvious fury. She probably didn't want to bring Reed out to see what was wrong. “Let me tell you something else. You need to stop playing games with people's lives. You need to stop trying to use your own child to keep Mike Frome from slipping away. He hates you, but he can't get free because he thinks your awful kid might be his.”

Justine's face tightened. “You don't know what you're talking about, Suzie-freaka. Mike Frome is a free agent. If he doesn't want to be with you, maybe you should look in the mirror for a reason. Don't blame it on me.”

“I do blame it on you. Because you know darn well he's breaking his heart wondering if he's Gavin's father, and you won't have the decency to let him know he isn't.”

“And are you so sure he isn't?”

“You bet I am. I don't know if it's that redheaded ski instructor you were hanging all over last winter, or the high school janitor or every disgusting no-neck monster on the football team. I do know it isn't Mike Frome.”

Suzie's anger, which had at first been just a hot eruption of emotion, had finally begun to go cold and focused. And dangerous. She straightened her spine and narrowed her eyes at Justine.

“You're so low you don't even care what this is doing to your little boy. He's become the town joke. Did you know people are making bets down at the Duckpuddle Diner on what color Gavin's hair is going to be when it comes in?”

Justine didn't answer. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“And poor Dr. Fairmont, who has always been so nice to you. Your dad's spreading it around that maybe he's the father.”

She flipped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and hitched her purse over her arm tightly. “You're a horrible person, Justine. You're poison for any man who gets near you. Up to and including your own son.”

She gathered the leashes and began to walk her dogs toward the door, carefully avoiding the newspapers full of pumpkin guts.

Justine stared for a long moment. Faith, who was facing her, saw that her lovely blue eyes were slowly filling with tears.

“So what was the point of all this, Suzie?” Justine blinked hard. “Did you just come here to hurt me, or what?”

Suzie turned around. Faith could sense that, in spite of her inexpensive clothes and her awkward manner, Suzie Strickland had real steel in her spine, far more than poor, pampered Justine Millner had ever dreamed of. Faith suddenly felt very, very sorry for both of them.

“I don't give a damn about you,” Suzie said. “I just want you to stop playing games about who Gavin's father is. Whatever the truth is, just say it. Just be an adult for once in your life and say it.”

Justine lifted her chin. “No matter what the truth turns out to be?”

“Of course.”

“What if you don't like it?”

Suzie shrugged. “It's called reality. I don't like a lot of it, but I deal with it anyhow.”

“Okay,” Justine said thickly. She took a deep breath, then bent down, reached into the baby carrier and picked up her son. She put him over her shoulder and patted his sleeping back with shaking fingers.

“Then here's a nice big dose of reality for you to choke down, Suzie. Reed Fairmont isn't Gavin's father, and neither is the red-haired ski instructor, or the janitor or anybody on the Firefly High football team.”

She took another breath. “Mike Frome is.”

 

R
EED NOTICED
that Faith was a little subdued when they first left the clinic for the festival. He didn't know if she was just skittish about going out for such a public occasion, or if she might still be uncomfortable about what had happened between them last night.

But, whatever was bothering her, he set out to make it go away.

He had plenty of help. Halloween was one of the most exciting days of the year in Firefly Glen. Be
cause the turning foliage attracted thousands of tourists, the carnival was a major event, a real moneymaker for the city, complete with midway and small rides, two haunted houses and the best food in three states.

The city went all out. The town square was strung from treetop to streetlight with garlands made of autumn leaves and twinkling gold, orange and red lights. Hundreds of jack-o'-lanterns and scarecrows and stalks of corn lined rows of booths selling arts and crafts. Bands played, one after the other, from the band shell, and the air smelled wickedly of fried dough and sauerkraut, onion rings and corn dogs and cotton candy.

And of course, Reed's secret weapon in the assault on Faith's mood was Spencer. As long as Spencer was happy, Faith was happy. And the kid was having a ball. He laughed and chattered and demanded to play every game, ride every ride, eat every piece of junk he could see.

His enthusiasm was irresistible. Within half an hour Faith had shaken off whatever was bugging her. And then the real fun began.

Reed hadn't been to the carnival in about three years, not since Melissa got too sick to come. He had forgotten how fantastic it was.

Spencer stopped dead in his tracks at the cotton candy booth. “Can I have some of that? The pink kind.”

“Not this early, sweetheart.” Faith eyed the big
puffy sticks of sugar with a frown. “You'll get it all over you, and then you'll stick to everything you touch for the rest of the day.”

“Please. I'll be careful, I promise.”

Naturally, the kid won, even though Reed knew Faith was right. Reed would probably have to buy a paper cup of water and haul Spencer over to the side of the road for a mini-bath.

But nobody really cared about any of that. Not today. Today there were no rules. Just foolish fun and mindless pleasure.

As the little boy walked away with his treasure, Reed surreptitiously pinched off a piece of the cotton candy cloud. He held it behind his back, and then shoved it into Faith's mouth when she opened it to admire a grapevine wreath.

Her eyes widened, and then, in mock anger, she clamped down on his finger with her teeth and refused to let him go.

“Ouch,” he said dramatically. He appealed to Spencer for help. “Hey, your aunt's going to bite off my finger.”

Spencer's eyes sparkled with unholy delight. “Do it, Aunt Faith! Bite his finger off!”

Reed scowled down at him. “I think I liked you better when you weren't talking.”

Spencer just laughed. Reed looked at Faith. “I'm warning you. Just eat the cotton candy nicely now, and let that finger go.”

Spencer was watching, so she really didn't have
any choice. She closed her lips and sucked gently. She was going for minimum sensuality, he could tell. Her tongue massaged his finger hesitantly, removing the candy with as little contact as possible. Still, he felt every soft tug, and the tip of his finger began to throb.

Other stuff began to throb, too.

Brilliant. Now what? About a thousand people milled around, and he was having trouble standing up straight. This definitely, definitely hadn't been his best idea.

He'd meant it as a joke.

Or had he? Last night, when they were dancing—another one of his bad ideas—he'd come face-to-face with the truth. He wanted Faith Constable. He wanted to make love to her until neither of them could speak or move or even breathe.