Torchlight (12 page)

“I’ve seen you ride, remember?”

Trevor stared her down with a simple smile as Julia climbed on behind him.

“Ever been on a motorcycle?”

“No. Never wanted to risk death on the road.”

“Lean with me. Let me take the lead, and follow it smoothly. Don’t try to counterbalance when we tilt on a turn. Just trust me.”

“Uh-huh. Where’s my helmet?”

Trevor handed it over his shoulder. He placed a hand on her thigh casually and lifted it so that she could see where to place her feet. “You can hold on to me or the bar behind you.” His touch left her feeling warm, as if he had left a handprint on her leg. How long had it been since Miles’s touch had made her feel that way?

Trevor pulled out. They cruised down the highway along the ocean, slowly, easily, as if they had all the time in the world. Julia felt precarious, holding on to only the small bar behind her; awkwardly, she wrapped her arms around Trevor.

Deep spring. Almost summer. Julia could feel the barely perceptible change in the evening air. “I’m thinking an August wedding …” Barely three months away. She forced the thought out of her mind.

She wanted to ask Trevor where he was taking her but, with the interference of the helmets and engine noise, could not. They rode past Oak Harbor’s tiny post office, the general store,
TARA’S GOOD FOOD
, and then were on the south side of town, driving down a picturesque stretch of highway that bordered the ocean.

“Did you see that?”

“What?” Tara looked up from table five to where Ben sat by the window, eating an early supper with Mike.

“Julia’s finally with a decent guy,” Mike said.

“Who’s that?”

“Trevor Kenbridge,” Ben said with a grin.

“Do you think—”

“Maybe she’s beginning to see something good right in front of her face,” Mike said, looking straight into his father’s eyes.

“Maybe we shouldn’t come to any conclusions,” Ben said, returning his son’s solid look.

Tara came over with the water pitcher, and Mike shoved his last bite of sandwich into his mouth. “Gotta go,” he mumbled.

“Mike …,” Ben said with consternation. Tara saw that the kid was making way for her and sat down across from Ben. “Maybe it’s time we come to some conclusions of our own, Ben. When are you going to let me in? Why can’t we be … together?”

Ben glanced out the window and then fiddled with his french fries. “I just don’t know if I’m ready.”

“Sharon’s been gone a long time, Ben. She loved you. She loved me. I can’t help but think that she’d enjoy the fact that we found each other.”

Ben grimaced and fished a wallet out of his jeans pocket and threw a bill on the table. “Can we talk about this later? I’m just not ready. Maybe this weekend, when we go to Egg Island?”

“Fine, Ben. This weekend.” She watched as he rose, leaned over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and then hurriedly departed.
What will it take to move that man off the fence?

It seemed like decades since she’d had any time away from responsibilities and decisions. But here, no one expected anything of her. Julia swayed with the rolling turns, feeling free and at peace for the first time in days. The man in front of her was an enjoyable and scintillating companion. The evening was glorious. Again, Julia forced Miles from her mind, determined just to enjoy herself tonight.

After five more miles, Trevor pulled alongside one of the many roadside lobster shacks. He greeted the cook, Walt, and introduced him to Julia as a friend of Ben DeBois. The man had the ruddy, rough-hewn complexion and personality of a traditional fisherman and spoke with a Down-Easter’s accent as thick as the fog rolling in. Julia instantly liked him.

They sat down at a weathered picnic table, and Walt brought out a red-and-white-checkered paper tablecloth, plastic bibs, a pair of stainless-steel shell crackers, and two tiny forks, which he set down in front of Julia and Trevor. “Preparation for battle,” he explained. Then he returned from the old shack with a candlelit hurricane lamp. “Ambiance,” he said.

Julia was delighted. She had not eaten at one of these old roadside shacks since she was a girl, and she had many wonderful memories of her entire family gathering around for a traditional lobster
feed. Her grandparents had delighted in the paradox of “picnicking” on lobster. After they died, Julia’s parents had let the tradition fade away, but Julia still found comfort in the sights and smells of lobster shacks. Trevor could not have chosen a better setting.

Walt opened a gigantic pot to stir the contents, filling the air with the aroma of steaming lobster. “You’re my first customers this season,” he told Julia. “Your man there talked me into a private dinner for two. Won’t get a steady stream of tourists for another week or two, when the summer people start to come.”

Julia blushed at Walt’s implication about her relationship with Trevor but brushed the notion and her embarrassment off quickly. “Do you fish all day and then cook all evening?”

“Aye. Good way to make an extra buck or two, I’ve found. Especially since the lobster seem more and more reluctant to make their way into my traps. Not as good a livin’ as it was twenty years ago.”

“You must be exhausted when you get home.”

“Nah. I start at three in the mornin’, get in ’bout three in the afternoon. Close shop ’bout nine and get ta bed ’round ten. Not bad. Keeps me on the sea and out from under the ol’ woman’s foot.” He laughed at his own private joke, a trait that seemed prevalent among New Englanders.

“Many of the locals depend on these little shacks to make it each year.” Trevor was genuinely concerned for the welfare of the solid folk who piloted these waters for a living. His empathy warmed Julia’s heart. Maybe she could bring Miles when he visited again. He’d get a sense of the place, begin to see what she had envisioned when she thought he was going “to show her the town.” This, this was New England at its finest.

Julia closed her eyes and listened to Trevor talking with Walt and to the waves crashing on the rocky shore twenty feet ahead of them. She listened to the gulls venturing north and the occasional car passing on the highway. A romantic interlude.
Romantic.
Julia dismissed the thought as soon as it entered her mind.

She opened her eyes and smiled at Trevor, sitting beside the open fire over where Walt stirred their boiling dinner. In the fading light, the shadows caught the cleft in Trevor’s chin and the deep dimples of his cheeks, highlighting his rugged good looks.

His eyes shone as they met hers and held her gaze, but Julia turned away, unable to listen to what his eyes were saying.

Trevor came to sit beside her, looking seaward with her at the view. Moments later Walt presented them with two earthenware plates, each piled high with potatoes, corn, and a whole lobster apiece, with a garnish of seaweed. “It’s beautiful!” Julia said. “You’re an amazing chef, Walt. I never could boil anything right.”

“Well now,” he said shyly, “you haven’t tried anything yet. It does look purty, though, don’t it? Always did like the solid red of a done lobster beside a good yellow cob of corn and dark green seaweed—that’s my own idea. Come back this summer, and the corn will be American. Lot better than that foreign corn the missus buys this time of year.”

“It’s all wonderful,” she assured him.

“Well, I’ll leave you two. Just yell if you need anything. I’ll be catching the baseball game inside the shack.”

“Thanks, Walt,” Trevor said. He looked at Julia and gently took her hand. Julia’s heart skipped a beat at his touch. “Will you say grace with me?”

She found her voice. “Sure,” she said lightly.

“Father, thank you for this gorgeous place, for people like Walt, and for this food. Thank you for allowing us to live here. We are blessed, and we acknowledge these gifts we’ve been given as coming from your hand. Amen.”

Julia opened her eyes to the heaping plate in front of her. Her hand still tingled from his touch, and she tried to ignore the feeling. “How am I going to eat all this?”

“I bet Walt will give you a doggy bag if you can’t manage it.” Trevor lifted a huge claw and cracked it with one of the steel utensils Walt had laid out for them. Handpicked by Walt from his afternoon catch, the lobsters were bigger than any Julia had seen in San Francisco.

The two talked and ate and talked some more until the sun faded from the sky. Julia barely noticed that time was passing. Walt came out of the shack at nine-thirty.

“Well, folks, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like, but I better head home.” He threw a bucket of water on the embers beneath the huge cast-iron pot, sending a plume of steam into the night air. Trevor stood, reached into his pocket, and handed a wad of cash to Walt without counting it. Julia noticed that Walt did not count it either.

“Thank you, friend,” their host said. “Come again this summer when it’s warmer and the corn is better.”

“You can count on it, Walt. It was a great meal.”

“Glad you liked it.” He cleared the table as Julia stood, moaning over her full stomach. “ ‘Night. Nice meetin’ you, Julia. Tara had nothing but good things to say ’bout you.”

“Good meetin’ you, too, Walt. Thanks again for a fabulous meal.”

“ ’T’weren’t nothin’.”

As Trevor turned the key and revved the engine, Julia noticed how cold the evening was. She did not hesitate to put her arms securely around him for the ride home.

When they arrived, Trevor paused to let Julia off in front of the house. His body tingled with the desire to stand, pull her to him, and kiss her as she’d never been kissed before. He swallowed hard. She was still wearing Beckley’s ring.

“Thanks for a great evening, Trevor.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night.”

He nodded, unable to speak, and drove off to the lighthouse cottage.

Please, God, give me patience if what I feel is right. And if it’s not, please make it clear to me very soon.

Dressed against the elements, Ben, Tara, and Mike entered the boathouse and approached the twenty-two-foot sailboat that was Tara’s passion in life second to the restaurant. Even with the unseasonably warm spring weather, it was early for sailing. But the trio was dressed warmly for their excursion. They had even attended the early service at church in order to leave most of their day free.

The
Sea Maiden
had been dry-docked all winter, and Tara smiled at seeing her again. Tara loved few things more than the wind in her face, the sun on her back, and the spray of the ocean. She felt it was
the perfect counterpart to cooking. Tara watched as Ben lowered the boat, allowing it to drop into the water.

“Come aboard, matey.” Ben stepped in and raised a hand to Tara.

“Watch how you address the captain,” she warned.

“Aye, aye. Forgot it’s not my ship.”

“Just don’t let it happen again.” The two shared a smile as they put their things away and began to get the boat ready.

“Why do we have to go on the island?” Mike complained. “Why don’t we just sail? We have great wind today—we’d be flyin’.”

“I’ve fished for thirty years ’round these islands. I figure it’s time we see what’s on top.”

“Yeah, Mike,” Tara added. “Imagine we’re the first settlers who came here. Let’s think of ourselves as explorers.”

“Oh brother.”

“Hoist the sail, or I’ll make you walk the plank,” Tara threatened.

Mike did as he was told, resigned that he was outvoted.

“Don’t feel too bad, Mike. Another summer of lessons and I’ll let you take her out on your own. The girls will all be after you for a ride.”

“I like that idea. Especially with Jessica.”

“Maybe I’ll come along to chaperon,” Ben teased.

“Dad …”

“Okay, boys, let’s go!” Together, Ben and Mike pushed the
Sea Maiden
out of the dock and unfurled the mainsail, while Tara remained at the helm. Then they moved to the jib.

As soon as they cleared the dock, the wind filled the broad lengths of canvas, and they were off. The day was glorious. The smell
of salt filled their nostrils as they turned their faces to the sun, which was doing its best to cut through the cool spring air.

After half an hour, as the mainland eased into the distance, Tara called to Mike and, pointing in the direction they needed to head, set him to work at the helm. Then she carefully made her way up to the bow, holding on to the guard cable to keep her balance in the small swells that pitched them upward and then fell away.

She sat down by Ben, enjoying the opportunity to close her eyes and feel the motion of the boat. Ben stared at her, observing her dainty nose, apple cheeks, and dimples, and the way her shiny brown hair blew wildly in the wind. Slowly he put an arm around her—not exactly holding her—just testing out the feel of it. He found he was holding his breath though, and when no pain but only pleasure greeted him, he sighed in relief and relaxed. He smiled at her and she shyly grinned back, then closed her eyes, obviously feeling the rhythm of the boat like a sensuous dance.

She was dressed in jeans and a thick, rust-colored fisherman’s sweater. Over them, she wore waterproof pants and a jacket to ward off the cold sea spray. Absently she pulled her hood up to cover her head and retied the chin strings that kept falling undone. Ben enjoyed seeing her so utterly relaxed.