Within minutes she had completely forgotten the lingering discomfort in her leg.
T
HEY ran again the next morning, then Lee cooked Sam breakfast while he did the Sunday crossword puzzle. Afterward she was sitting on the patio brushing her hair when he surprised her yet again by kneeling behind her, taking the brush from her hand, and pulling it gently through the tangled locks. As he braided the dark strands, they talked about their families and their pasts.
But there was one topic Lee never discussed—her children. She kept the door closed on the extra bedroom, hoping Sam wouldn’t ask questions. And he didn’t . . . until late Sunday afternoon, when they were once again lying naked on the living room floor.
She had fallen asleep and awoke to find Sam stretched out on his side, watching her, his jaw braced on a palm.
“Hi,” he greeted softly.
“Hi.” She smiled. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“Have you been waiting long?”
“Not long. It’s been an enjoyable wait.”
She wondered how long he’d been studying her and resisted the urge to hide her stomach behind an arm. Even before he moved, she sensed what he was wondering.
Still lounging on his side, he dropped his eyes and slowly lifted his dark hand from his hip. It moved toward her stomach, then a single fingertip traced the faded line there, following it downward from her navel.
“What’s this?” he asked in the quietest of voices, lifting his eyes to hers.
She swallowed and felt a flash of dread, wanting to be honest with him yet searching for an adequate lie. Finding none, she could only answer, “It’s a stretch mark.”
“And what’s it from?” His unsmiling eyes remained locked with hers.
The words stuck in her throat, though she realized he deserved an answer—an honest answer. He had seen the marks many times during the past two days but had refrained from asking questions until it became apparent she was not going to offer an explanation without being prompted. She swallowed dryly, her throat tight with apprehension.
“It’s . . . it’s from a baby I once had.”
A long moment passed, rife with unspoken questions. Then, without another word, he bent to her, resting his lips against the telltale line. Lee’s heart threatened to burst beyond the bonds of her body as his warm mouth lingered. Tears suddenly filled her eyes at the sight of him twisted from the hip, his shoulder blade outlined sharply while he breathed softly against her skin.
When he raised his head at last, it was to study her eyes deeply as he asked, “When?”
“A long time ago.”
He touched his thumb to the wet track from a tear. “Tears again, Cherokee, just like that day in the orchard ?”
His compassion never failed to throw her off guard, for it was so unlike what she’d first expected from him. She turned her head sharply aside and stared out the window, unable to meet the concern in his gaze any longer. But he stretched out beside her again, wrapped her in his strong arms, and forced her to face him.
“Did it die, Cherokee?”
The natural assumption. She knew she should disabuse him of it here and now, but it was so hard . . . so hard. She closed her eyes, trapping more tears that wanted to escape, cutting off the sight of a tender, concerned Sam Brown, whom she knew she was deceiving by letting the misinterpretation go uncorrected.
“I can’t talk about it. I . . . I just can’t, Sam.”
To Lee’s surprise, he acquiesced. “Okay, we won’t talk about it now.” He brushed the hair back from her temple with his wide palm, then kissed the top of her head. “Anyway, I think it’s time I was going.”
They were silent as they went upstairs and found his clothes—the same he’d worn there Friday night—and a robe for her. She walked him to the door, but the gaiety they’d shared all weekend was gone. They stood without speaking for a long moment, Lee staring at his feet, and Sam at the keys in his palm. Finally he sighed and took her into his arms.
“Listen, I have to fly to Chicago tomorrow. I’ll be gone for a few days.”
She was taken by surprise at how abandoned his announcement made her feel. They had spent two days together—nothing more. How could she feel this bereft after only two days?
Her arms circled his shoulders, suddenly strong and clinging as she raised up on tiptoe, but after a brief return of the pressure, he backed away and grinned down at her.
“Promise me you’ll run every day without me?”
She dredged up a bright smile. “Promise.”
He kissed her lightly. “I’ll be back on Thursday or so.” Again they fell silent. He drew in a deep breath and looked as if he were coming to a decision he didn’t like. “It’ll probably be good for us to be apart for a while, huh?”
“Sure,” she agreed with that same false brightness, while her heart seemed to crack around the edges.
He gave her a last smile. “Get some sleep. You look exhausted.”
Then he turned toward the door, and she found herself gripping its edge with both hands while calling after him, “Call me when you get back?”
“Of course.”
B
UT during the days that followed she wondered if he really would call. Why had that last conversation come up?
Why?
Each time she thought of it she felt like a fist was gripping her heart. He had guessed the truth, she was sure. He had guessed and wanted her to admit it, but when she’d backed away he’d decided it was time to take a second look at things. That’s what he was doing on this trip to Chicago—evaluating her from a distance.
She lived with the fear that he would return having decided he didn’t want to invest any more time in a woman who couldn’t be totally honest with him, and she promised herself that if he called when he got back, she’d tell him the truth immediately.
In that brief time he had made himself an integral part of her life. He lingered in almost every corner of it—in the office, where she often glanced toward his open door, wondering how his business was going in Chicago, who he was with, if he missed her too; in her townhouse, where they had laughed and slept and made love and left memories in nearly every room; in her car, which reminded her of what fun it had been learning from him. Even running through the warm August evenings reminded her that he had already encouraged this change in her lifestyle, for she kept her promise and jogged after work each day, improving her wind control by breathing in long draughts as he’d taught her instead of in rhythm with her footsteps.
Sometimes she asked herself if this sudden obsession with Sam Brown was only sexual. Was she nothing more than a desperate divorcee who’d tumbled for the first man who gave her a second look? The idea frightened her, for ever since her divorce she’d feared doing that. Was she that kind of woman? Admittedly, it had been a long dry spell for her, which she’d certainly made up for with Sam Brown. Yet, what they had experienced that weekend had taken her feelings for him far beyond the sexual.
He had revealed himself to be a caring person, self-disciplined, amusing, devoted, compassionate, honest. What a surprise to discover such a myriad of admirable qualities hidden beneath the surface person she’d so mistrusted at first.
Recalling his attributes, she grew to miss him in a sometimes terrifying way and wished he’d call. But he didn’t, though he checked in with Rachael every day. In a way Lee was hurt that he didn’t ask to speak to her, but he’d said it would be good for them to be apart, and apparently he was giving the test a full chance.
Lee found him on her mind far, far too often and realized things had happened very fast between them. Too fast—like the first time with Joel when neither of them had stopped to think past the here and now. Hadn’t she learned her lesson then? Yet here she was, plunged into loneliness over Sam after only a two-day relationship.
Relationship. She considered the word. Yes, she admitted, she and Sam Brown had related to one another in many ways. That was why their last conversation had come to bear such great significance and why his parting mood had left her utterly despondent. Once again she promised herself that the minute he called she’d tell him the truth.
Every time the phone rang in the office on Thursday, Lee’s eyes went to the lighted button, wondering if it was him. Every time somebody’s shadow crossed the doorway, she looked up with her heart in her throat. But he hadn’t returned by five o’clock, and she drove home trying to decide whether or not she should run. What if he called while she was gone? In the end she kept her promise and went for the longest run she’d taken yet, pushing herself until her hip sockets ached and her thigh muscles quivered. Back home, she showered and put on faded blue jeans and a T-shirt with an advertisement for Water Products Company on its front. If he didn’t call, if he didn’t come, at least she wouldn’t find herself at the end of the evening removing clothing that indicated she’d fussed and waited for him. But she polished her nails and braided her hair and put on a new brand of perfume she’d chosen for its light, uncloying scent. She opened the refrigerator perhaps a dozen times, but nothing appealed to her. She rehearsed exactly how she’d tell him, but each time she said the words her palms grew damp.
When the phone rang at 7:45, her heart seemed to skitter to her throat and her stomach went fluttery. It rang again. She lurched and grabbed it.
“Hello?”
Sam’s baritone voice held an unexpected teasing note as he announced, “This is a collect obscene phone call from the Honorable Sam Brown to Cherokee Walker. Will she accept the charges?”
Joy sluiced through Lee, bringing a faint weakness to her knees. She beamed at the ceiling and answered, “Yes, she will.”
“And is this Cherokee Walker?”
“It is.”
“The one with the Indian braid on cleaning day and the mole way low on the left side of her rump?”
“Yes.” A gurgle of laughter escaped her lips.
“And the one with the neat, sexy breasts just about the size of the palm of my hand?”
“The same.” This was obviously no time for serious matters.
“The one who makes love on the living room floor and against the bathroom wall?”
“Sam, where are you?”
“I’m home, but I’ll be at your house in exactly”—a pause followed as if he were checking his watch—“thirteen and a half minutes.”
Her heart was hammering against her ribs, and she was smiling fit to kill. She was so relieved she forgot to say anything.
“Cherokee, are you still there?”
“Yes . . . yes, I’m still here.”
Silence hummed for a moment before his voice came low and husky. “I missed you to beat hell, babe.”
A great outthrusting pressure formed across her chest as she held the receiver in both hands and returned in a half whisper, “I missed you too. Hurry, Sam.”
When had she last felt this giddy, this impatient? She was fifteen years old again, waiting for that special boy to walk into English class. She was sixteen, planning an appealing pose that a certain boy couldn’t help but notice. She was seventeen and trying to appear casual while every nerve and muscle in her body was taut with anticipation. She conjured up the image of Sam Brown, and it was flawless and godlike, and she told herself it was only her breathless eagerness that made him perfect in her memory. Yet when reality stepped through her door, the memory paled in comparison.
He came in without knocking. She was standing at the kitchen end of the hall, where she waited for his knock after hearing the car door shut. At his unannounced entry, she drew in a quick breath, then stood unmoving, staring at Sam as he hesitated with his hand on the door—copper skin, chestnut hair, trousers of cinnamon brown, an open-throated ivory dress shirt, and a look in his dark eyes that said the past four days had been as long for him as they’d been for her.
“Cherokee . . .”
“Sam . . .”
She felt a moment of intense elation, took a hesitant step, and then they were flying toward each other and his arms were around her and hers were about his neck as he lifted her from the floor and turned in a joyous circle, holding her crushed high against his chest with her nose pressed against his crisp collar, where the scent of him was just as she remembered. She closed her eyes, the better to absorb the almost dizzying satisfaction at having him back again. Sam . . . Sam. . . . He let her slip down, and even before her toes touched the floor, they were kissing, with pounding hearts pressed together so tightly they seemed to beat within a single body. Their tongues conveyed not only impatience, not only eagerness, but also that far more poignant message—you’re as good as I remembered . . . even better. She held the back of his head in two greedy palms, felt it move as his mouth worked compellingly upon hers and his strong arms circled so far around her ribs that his fingertips touched the soft swells at the sides of her breasts. Then his palms ran the length of her back, caressing it through the T-shirt from neck to waist in a touch that was curiously unsexual, but a confirmation of her presence in his arms once again, a celebration at having her back where she belonged.
In much the same way she slipped her fingers inside the back of his collar, seeking warm skin, kneading the hard knots of his neck as if to reaffirm his presence.
When the first wild rush of greeting had finally passed, he lifted his head and his voice shook. “God, I missed you.”
His words sent shudders of relief down her spine. His hands slipped under her shirt, and he folded his elbows along the center of her back till his wide palms came up through the neck of her T-shirt to cradle her head. She lay back against them, looking up at him, taking her fill of him.
“I missed you too . . . incredibly.” Words seemed inadequate to describe how all-consuming her thoughts of him had been. She touched him in an effort to tell him in another way what her days had been like without him. She caressed his cheeks, his eyebrows, his lips . . . and as she did, his fingers massaged her head on either side of the thick braid. He closed his eyes and turned his parted lips against her fingertips as they brushed past.