Chapter 3

It was dawn when Bobby woke. The pearl gray of it filtered through the closed slats of the mini-blinds, washed the room in the soft twilight that preceded the sunrise.

Shayla was curled against him in sleep, her head tucked against his chest, one arm curved warmly around his waist.

He'd slept the night away on his left side, holding her in his arms. Any wonder his heart was thudding now, his stomach clutching uneasily.

He hadn't touched a woman in more than three years, and he never spent the night with anyone. Always he went home to his own bed, or the woman went home to hers.

Sleeping together, in the literal sense, was an intimacy he wouldn't allow himself. It was too sticky, too easy to get caught up in the nearness of someone, in the idea that maybe things would be different this time, that he could make it work.

And here he was, in her bed, snuggled up with her and wanting desperately for things to be different this time.

He doubted they would be. That they could be.

With a sigh, he bowed his face into her hair. She was so warm and soft, cuddled against him that way. He could fall in love with her. It would be easy enough to let go, he thought, and just slide right into it.

And before he could take that thought any further, he took a mental step back, readjusted. Letting himself love her would only lead to heartbreak. He knew that as surely as the sun would rise.

Because she wouldn't stay. They never did. Even his own father hadn't.

Of course, he hadn't known back then that William Goren wasn't really his father. He hadn't known that his father was a killer who had turned on his mother for ending their affair. It was either fate or blind luck that Brady had only raped her, beaten her, but had stopped short of killing her. She'd escaped with her life, if not her sanity, for it was only three years later that the first signs of the schizophrenia that would plague her for the rest of her life began to show up.

Back then, he'd been wishing for a normal family, for a father who would come home and toss him in the air until he squealed with laughter, or take him outside and toss a baseball around with him.

Frank had been the one to throw the baseball, to shoot hoops with him, and then, when their father walked out, even that had been taken from him.

They'd both been stunned by the divorce, especially since it was considered such a sacrilege by the Catholic church where they'd both been taken by their mother since they were small children.

Frank had become sullen and angry, tired of trying to please a father who wouldn't give him a break and resigned to living with a mother whose behavior became more and more erratic until she was finally put on medication that made her more of a lump of clay than a person.

As brothers, they'd grown apart. And as a family, they'd been shattered beyond repair. Even before the diagnosis of schizophrenia and the divorce, their parents' marriage had been volatile. Their father drank too much and ran around with other women, which was mortifying to two young boys who had to listen to the snickers of the other kids at school about their family drama.

All his life he'd been pushed aside, first by his father, in favor of Frank, the son he knew for sure was his own. Then by his mother, who constantly lamented that if Frank had been the one in charge of her care, she wouldn't have had to live in an institution. She would push him away, imperious in her discontent, her sharp wit and tongue having returned with the innovations in medicine for her condition. And then, just as quickly, she would pull him back again, imploring him not to leave her alone even as she scolded him for not helping his brother.

Frank, with his drug addictions and gambling debts, who'd always known just what to say to get what he wanted. He knew how to lay on the guilt, or play on the sympathies of others. He could "talk" program even when he wasn't in one. He had learned how to game the system, work the angles, and how to flatter and coax until you did what he wanted.

Along with his gambling problems, that was another thing he had learned from his father.

So long ago, Bobby had stopped believing the things his brother said. And then he'd been sucked into the storm once again because of a nephew he'd never known he had.

He closed his eyes, felt the beginning of tears, and wished so much that he knew what was wrong with him that people found it so easy to use him and then toss him aside. What was it that had made it so easy for them to take his love, his heart, and then throw them right back at him and turn away?

And what did it say about him that the one man who had once been like a father to him had been the one to take his brother from him?

It would have been ridiculous to say he lived under a cloud, but there were days when that was exactly what it felt like. And here he was, snuggled cozily in bed with a woman who had no idea what she was getting herself into. How could she give her heart so freely when he couldn't give her anything in return?

She began to stir then, murmuring in her sleep as the arm around his waist curled tighter. She nuzzled against his chest, her legs stretching languidly and then sliding through his, and he felt himself beginning to stir in other ways.

He stroked her back lightly, very nearly groaned when she moved against him and her thigh slid gently between his. He slid a hand down her side, over her hip, just barely brushed it over the curve of her bottom, and felt the ache sweeten, in his loins and in his heart.

She murmured again, sighed. He lifted her leg, laid it over his, and then slipped his hand beneath her, found her already warm and wet. He brushed his lips over her cheek as he touched her, let the unbearable softness of her seep into his system until he felt it shimmering beneath his skin.

Shayla came slowly out of her slumber into what felt like a dream. Her body was still warm and pliant with sleep, and Bobby was stroking her so slowly, so tenderly, that when she climbed she did so as if underwater. Liquid and soft, until the climax crested in a long, warm wave and she sighed with the sweetness of it.

He shifted then, rolled her beneath him, covered her mouth with his as he slid into her like silk. Her arms lifted, wrapped around him; her legs wound through his like a rope, binding them together.

He felt his heart straining toward her and he locked it away, even as she was whispering his name, as her fingers danced over his skin and her mouth sought his. He closed the door to his heart, chained it, even while he took her. Even while he wanted to love her.

It was a slow, gentle dance as their bodies moved together in a rhythm as old as time itself. And when he felt her slipping off the edge, when he felt her close around him, he pressed his face into her neck and let himself go with her.


Later, as the sun rose to throw golden fingers of light over the bed, he eased slowly away from her and sat up. She rolled over onto her stomach into the warmth he'd left behind, her arms reaching to wrap around the pillow.

He sat looking at her for a long moment, his eye catching on something just on the back of her right shoulder. A small tattoo, he realized, and leaned to get a closer look.

Tinkerbelle, her knees tucked beneath her and a mischievous smile on her face.

And if that didn't fit what he already knew about Shayla, he didn't know what did. She was full of that playfulness and mischief. He'd seen plenty of it the day before when they'd been romping in the yard with Toby. And he'd felt it later that night when she'd teased him into dancing with her to that wild electronic music.

Because he wanted – badly – to lay back down and wrap himself around her, he stood up, picked up his jeans from the floor and fished around for his boxers. He found one of his shirts on the other side of the bed, but the t-shirt was mysteriously missing.

He dressed quietly, rolled back the sleeves of the shirt before buttoning it, and stood staring down at her as she lay curled beneath the sheet. She was shivering, he saw, and he drew the lightweight quilt over her, his heart aching for her, for what he wished he could have with her.

But he knew he couldn't.

He looked for his shoes, then remembered that he hadn't been wearing any when he walked over the night before.

He stood looking around her bedroom, at the fine oak furniture, the intricately made iron bed, the cozy little corner near the back windows where she had a comfortably overstuffed armchair and ottoman. A small table sat beside it with a pretty Tiffany lamp and three books stacked on it.

A room that invited you to stay. Just like the woman who slept dreamily in the bed.

Because he wanted too much to stay, he turned and made his way quietly down the stairs, peeked into the living room, which she seemed to be using as a home office. He blinked at the enormous bookcases in there, chock full. There were two more bookcases in the den, both filled with books and with framed photographs of her family.

Her kitchen was bright and sunny, with granite countertops and oak cabinets, and the view from all those windows that lined the back of the house was spectacular. The den fed right off the kitchen and was as inviting as the rest of the house. It was homey and cozy as a cottage from a magazine dedicated to living by the sea. She put things together well, but not so they looked like she had actually tried to put them together. The effect was much too appealing for his comfort.

Finn came to nudge at his hand and he gave his head an absent rub as he went down a short hallway and found the sunroom.

Her studio, he realized, taking in the long wooden table with hunks of clay sitting on it, the potter's wheel in one corner. There was a small wet bar, cabinets above and below it that held her supplies. Brushes, tubes of paint, pallets, assorted tools for shaping and sculpting the clay.

He recalled Shelly saying she wanted to sell some of her pottery, and Shayla telling him that the Fire Island Gallery had a collection of her work on display.

A Romanesque pedestal held a finished piece that had been fired and painted. It was a winged fairy, just over two feet tall, and he stepped closer to get a better look.

She was a beautiful, alluring creature with wings that seemed to be made of gossamer, though he knew they were fired clay, just like the rest of her. She wore a flowing dress of emerald green and there were tiny green slippers on her feet. Her eyes were a deep, deep blue that seemed to hold secrets in their gold-flecked depths and her hair was a mass off copper fire that fell to tumble around graceful shoulders. In her cupped hands she held a ball of fiery light.

Touch me, it seemed to say. Touch me and feel my fire.

Hesitantly he reached out, laid the tips of his fingers on that ball, and felt a tingle of heat flash into him before the logical part of his mind took over and assured him that he was imagining it.

Wow.

He blinked, eased back a little, amazed at the ability Shayla possessed. He tried to analyze the trick, to see how she'd made that ball seem to be glowing from within, and he just couldn't figure it out.

She was truly gifted as an artist. Gifted in a way that could make people feel, even when they weren't aware of the desire to. Another thing to add to that tiny ache in his soul that was beginning to grow much too keen.

Finn was there again, nudging at his hands. He turned, knelt down and rubbed the dog's ears lightly. "What is it, boy? You want to go out?" Immediately those ears pricked up. He stood up, clucked softly. "Okay, buddy. Let's go."

He'd let him out to pee and then he would go. There was no use staying when he knew what Shayla wanted, how she felt. And he cursed himself for getting carried away with her. He had known it wouldn't be an easy tumble, not with her.

She loved him.

Even the thought of it filled him with an inexpressible desire to love her back. But he couldn't. Love only meant pain for him. And loss. He didn't think he could survive another heartbreak.

So he wound himself up, locked himself away, and stood on her deck watching Finn gambol around the yard, stopping every few feet to lift his leg and pee on something else.

He dawdled in the kitchen then, dug around in the pantry for dog biscuits and gave one to Finn when he found them. He found the coffee, too, and thought the least he could do was brew a pot for when she awoke.

A guilt gift, to soothe his own conscience.

And then, instead of leaving, he sat in the den, with one of the windows open, and listened to the ocean as he waited for the coffee to brew.

He wondered what it would be like living on an island like this, on the edge of the sea. This island, with it's virtual lack of cars and its plentiful supply of people riding bikes, or walking along, towing those bright red Radio Flyer wagons, seemed almost to be on the edge of the world. What was it Shayla had said – the pace was slow and easy, and reminded her of her home in the South.

Down south where the air was thick as molasses and tasted just as sweet.

He heard her voice in his head, the rich sugary flow of it, and closed his eyes for a moment, pictured her as she had been the day before, in her cutoffs and tank top, her legs and feet bare, running after Finn as they raced over the sand.

And he pictured her as she had been in the night, her eyes shining in the moonlight, her body dusky with her summer tan and glowing with the fire that burned within her.

It was that fire that had done it, he thought. He had been unable to resist her. The moment he had stepped through the door and gotten his arms around her, he'd been lost.

The coffee machine gurgled and hissed, and he blinked. Once, twice. He stood up, went to the kitchen, rummaged in a drawer, intending to write her a note and apologize for not staying until she woke up.

Lame, he knew, but he couldn't stay. He had to get out before he did something stupid. Like get involved with her. Like fall in love with her.

He found a small yellow notepad and a pen, and stood with the words running through his brain. He couldn't make himself write them down. Finally, he laid the pen on the pad, got down a mug, and poured himself a cup of coffee.


Shayla rolled over in the bed, her eyes fluttering open as she reached for Bobby. And found him gone. She sat up quickly, her heart pounding, then sinking like a stone.

He'd left her after all.

Her eyes brimmed, then spilled over as she leaned over the edge of the bed, skimmed her hands along the floor and managed to find her panties. She spotted something dark sticking out from beneath the trailing end of the quilt at the end of the bed and realized it was his t-shirt.

Foolishly, she pressed her face into it, breathed him in, and willed the tears to stop. It would do no good to cry about it. She wasn't going to give up just because he was gun-shy about getting involved. And she wasn't going to let herself be upset because he had left her there alone after making love to her so tenderly in the rosy light of the dawn.

She pulled his t-shirt on and it swallowed her, fell low enough to skim her thighs. The scent of him surrounded her, comforted her, and she stood up, stretched, and wondered where Finn was.

Then she got halfway down the stairs and smelled the coffee. What…had he made her a pot before slipping quietly away?

She wasn't sure if she should be mad or insulted, and then she walked into the kitchen and found him there, sitting at the small round table, the newspaper open in front of him, and Finn dozing on the floor at his feet.

Bobby sensed her there, even before she walked all the way in, and when he looked up he found his missing t-shirt. He also found that he liked the way she looked in it.

"Coffee's fresh," he said, keeping his tone light. "I just made it about thirty minutes ago."

"Thanks."

She felt the distance and wasn't sure how to deal with it at the moment, so she went to the cupboard and got down a mug. She spied the notepad and pen, and realized that he had intended to leave her a note.

She poured her coffee, sweetened it with sugar and the hazelnut creamer she liked, and wondered why he hadn't. What had made him stay?

Despite the wall he was attempting to keep between them, she set her cup on the table and moved to stand behind his chair so she could slide her arms around his shoulders, press a soft kiss to his temple.

"You were going to leave," she said softly. "But you didn't."

"No," he said, his voice just as soft. "I didn't."

"Why?"

"I don't know." He lifted a hand, laid it over both of hers where they rested against his chest. "I probably should have."

She rubbed her cheek against his. "One day, you're going to be glad you didn't."

"Bet you won't be."

"That's a losing bet, sugar," she returned lightly, gave him a squeeze before she let him go to pick up her cup. "Do you like pancakes?"

He looked up at her. "Why are you making it so easy?"

"What?"

"This…" He lifted his hands, palms up, trying to understand her. "You…me… everything." He shook his head. "You walk in and see that I'm still here, even though you didn't expect me to be, and it barely puts a hitch in your stride. You see that pad…" He gestured toward the counter, "and wonder about the note I didn't write, and then you come over here and hug me like I didn't plan on walking out on you this morning."

"So…what…you want me to get mad?" She shook her head, smiled at him. "I could, but then that would just waste this beautiful morning and ruin my appetite. So. You want blueberry or chocolate chip?"

He stood up, shook his head again as he moved over to lean on the counter, watch her as she took out the flour and the sugar, rummaged in the fridge for milk and eggs.

"No temper fit," he said slowly. "And I know you're well capable of one. No tears either, and you've probably got plenty of those. So what's it about, Shay?" he asked, unaware of shortening her name in that familiar way.

"Temper fits wear me out," she told him. "You'll find that out soon enough. And I already cried while I was still upstairs, so that's done, too."

His heart softened, tugged hard. He stepped around the counter, took her hands in his. "You were crying?"

She nodded. "Because I thought you were gone," she said quietly.

"I should have been." He put his arms around her, pulled her close. "I'll just end up breaking your heart."

Shayla rested her head against his chest, slid her arms around his waist. "Better a broken heart than a lonely one," she countered. "At least one that's broken knows it's alive."

He closed his eyes, bent to rest his chin on top of her head. "Do you have an answer for everything?"

"No. Just the things that matter to me."

"I matter to you." He said it with the barest hint of wonder.

"Yes," she said gently. "You do."


Pancakes. She'd made him blueberry pancakes. And topped one of them with whole blueberries to make a funny little smiley face.

It had put a smile on his face.

It was after nine when he crossed her yard, let himself through the gate with the charming arbor arching over it, covered with some kind of soft green vine that held tiny, delicate white flowers.

A white picket fence.

He shook his head. Of all things, he thought, that he should finally agree to take a vacation and end up staying right next door to someone who was the very epitome of all those desires he kept secretly locked in his heart.

The house, the coziness of it, the absolute hominess of it. The yard, rioting with flowers and hardy shrubs that would withstand the salty winds coming off the sea. She even had the dog. The friendly black lab with the soft brown eyes and playful disposition.

"Shayla."

He whispered her name as he stood for a moment at the base of the deck stairs, looking back at her house, at the long porch that held an old fashioned wooden swing, the deck that flowed out smoothly from one end of it and had a round, rippled glass table and four chairs in one corner of it, a grill situated in another.

Not just a house, he thought, but a home.

How could it be that he'd found her here? That he'd found everything he'd ever dreamed of, everything he'd ever wanted, right here, in her? How could it be possible that in less than twenty-four hours she'd opened herself and given him her heart?

And how could Shelly and Lewis have known so exactly what he needed?

The back door was open, he saw as he turned and started up the stairs. So much for sneaking in.

The very idea that he was considering sneaking in at his age made him chuckle a little as he slid the screen door aside and stepped into the family room at the back of the house. He stepped carefully around assorted toys with a wistful smile. Toby managed to make anywhere Lewis and Shelly went feel like home.

"Well…" Lewis turned from the counter, where he was pouring a second cup of coffee, fixed his friend with an interested grin. "Early morning walk?"

"Shut up." But there was no bite to the tone and he smiled as he eased onto a stool at the breakfast bar, leaned his chin on his hand. "Just so you know, I'm thinking about writing you out of my will."

The laugh came out quick and amused. "Disowning me, huh?" Lewis chuckled as he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. "After all we've been through, too."

"Yeah. You and your bright ideas." He tried to scowl, but couldn't stop the smile. " 'A little flirtation never hurt anyone'," he mimicked.

"You look okay to me."

"Yeah. Maybe." Bobby sighed. "She's in love with me."

Lewis choked, set down his coffee. "What?"

"Yeah. Didn't count on that little development, huh?" He shook his head. "I don't know what to do about it."

"Do you have to do anything? Why not just let it be?"

"Lew." Exasperated now, he straightened, looked at his friend seriously. "She doesn't have any idea what she's getting into."

"Come on, man." Lewis buttered his toast, tossed it onto a small plate. "You act like you're so hard to deal with. You ever think maybe you keep ending up with the same results because you always pick the same types?"

Before Bobby could open his mouth, Lewis held up a hand. "Hear me out, will you? I'm only your oldest friend, which means I know you better than anybody else."

"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But it's the truth at least. I know how you are about that." When Bobby only grinned at him and shook his head, he went on. "Look…the way I see it, you usually get involved with people who are either too damn needy…please let me remind you of Sandy The Stalker…or people who are shallow enough to keep things on the surface and have a good time. Trouble is, you get tired of the good time thing after awhile and want more, and they don't. Or, you get tired of the clinging vine types who burn up your phone day and night, and you have to back away slowly and pray they aren't the bunny-boiling type as well."

"That's a real glowing endorsement, Lew," Bobby said sarcastically. "You might want to call Shay over here and let her hear this, warn her to run while she still can."

Lewis waved a hand, dismissed the sarcasm with a smile. "She look like the running type to you?"

"No. That's what worries me." He stood up, went to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. "She's been through hell with her ex," he said slowly. "She didn't give me details, but she didn't have to. I've seen plenty and I can imagine."

He took a deep swallow of water, mused out the window for a long moment, watched a couple of teenage boys wading into the surf with their boogie boards in tow.

"I don't think…I could forgive myself if I broke her heart," he said quietly.

"Nothing new there," Lewis answered gently. "You don't forgive yourself anything. That's the problem." When Bobby whipped his head around to stare at him, he shrugged and plunged on.

"I'm your best friend, right?" he said. "Well then I can say this because you need to hear it. You take the blame for things that aren't your fault, and you push people away when they try to help you because you don't trust anyone to come through for you when you need them. So your answer is not to admit you need anyone, to not let yourself need anyone."

"When did you get so damn psychoanalytical?" Bobby asked with a shake of his head and a barely concealed smile.

"You've been rubbing off on me." Lewis took another bite of toast, considered his friend thoughtfully. "Why don't you just relax and let it happen?" he asked. "Sounds to me like Shayla knows exactly what she's getting into, despite what you think. And you gotta admit, she's nothing like anyone you've been involved with before."

"We're not involved."

"Uh-huh." Lewis chuckled lightly. "You keep thinking that if you want. You're halfway in love with her already, man. You want to try putting the brakes on your heart, go ahead. But I think you'll regret it forever if you do."

Bobby shook his head. "I'll regret it more if I hurt her," he said softly and left to go back to his room.

He needed a shower, and time to clear his head. Except that he could smell her perfume on his shirt and, as he stood holding it in his hands and thought about holding her, he knew he wasn't going to be able to walk away so easily.

He turned the water on hot, stepped under the spray, and remembered making love to her that morning with the rosy glow of the morning sun slanting across the bed.

He hated to admit, even to himself, that he needed her touch; the softness of it, the absolute tenderness of it.

She'd be in her studio now, he knew. She had said she was going to spend the morning working with her clay and seeing what would come of it.

She'd be on the beach by lunchtime, she'd said with that sweet smile, and could be persuaded to make an extra sandwich or two for him if he was inclined to laze around on the beach a bit.

Maybe, he'd said, but he knew he'd be there.

He stood under the hot pulsing water and knew he should resist, back off before he got in too deep. Trouble was, he was already in too deep. He just didn't want to admit it.


Shayla was just washing the clay from her hands when she heard the tap-tapping of someone at the kitchen door. She leaned back and called out, "Door's open."

A moment or two later, Shelly appeared in the doorway of the sunroom.

"Are you still working?" she asked. "I don't want to interrupt you."

"I'm done for now." She dried her hands, glanced at the sculpture that was beginning to take shape on her table, then looked at the clock. "Wow. Nearly noon already. Time flies when you're not paying attention."

Shelly was staring at the fairy perched on her pedestal. "Shayla, this is amazing. The detail…it's wonderful."

"Maggie's wanting that one for the gallery, but if you want to wrangle with her, I'll give you her number."

Shayla grinned, then tilted her head thoughtfully at the look on Shelly's face. "Uh-oh. Wheels are turning. Are you here for the juicy details or because Bobby wants you to warn me to run quick, fast and in a hurry as far from him as I can?"

"Ha." Shelly gave a soft laugh. "The details are up to you, if you want to dish, and if he wants you to run, I sure don't. He needs to come up against someone more stubborn than he is."

"Well I sure fit that bill," Shayla chuckled. "Stubborn as three mules according to my uncle and my dearly departed grandma. Mama always said I was just determined. 'Course she was Irish, and more stubborn than I am, so she may have been a little biased."

"He's been through hell, Shayla." Shelly gazed out of the back windows toward the sea, then looked back at Shayla. "I think he's still pretty raw from everything that's happened in the past couple of years."

"Seems like he's lost a lot in his life."

"He has." She smiled, shook her head. "I guess I was really coming over here to make sure you weren't giving up on him. I have this mother-hen thing going on. Lew's forever telling me to lay off."

"Men," Shayla giggled. "What do they know?" And giving into impulse, she reached over and squeezed Shelly's hand. "I'm not giving up on Bobby. Not at all. I tumbled head first into love with him the moment I looked into his eyes," she added quietly. "I've had this sense for quite awhile that I was waiting for something. All it took was one look at him and I knew."

"Oh, God." Shelly felt her eyes filling. "You are a romantic." She squeezed Shayla's hand back. "He needs you," she said. "No matter what he says to the contrary."

"Contrary. That's a word that suits him."

Shelly laughed out loud. "It does."

"I'm done here, so why don't I fix some sandwiches, dish up some of that leftover macaroni salad, and bring it out to the beach? I've got a portable dock for my iPod and we can have us a lazy afternoon of music, baking in the sun and swimming until our skin prunes."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll tell the boys. Lew will probably fall to his knees and kiss the ground you walk on if you stick a few more slices of that apple bread in with the sandwiches." Shelly laughed. "He's in love with you, you know; in that platonic, brotherly sort of way that happens when a man meets the woman who should have been his sister. He was singing your praises to Bobby this morning."

"Sounds like you're not the only one playing matchmaker here." Shayla grinned, felt a warm tug on her heart. "I think that's so sweet. I'm an only child, so I'll consider myself honored to think of him as the big brother I never had."

"We're a package deal, so you get a sister, too."

Shayla surprised herself, and Shelly, too, by giving her a hard, tight hug. "Two-for-one," she said softly. "That's a deal too good to pass up."


She was driving him crazy. Not on purpose, he knew. She didn't have any idea how difficult it was for him to keep his eyes off her, his mind set against the idea of getting involved with her.

Bobby sat half-reclined in a beach chair and watched Shayla and Cindy riding boogie boards in the rolling waves.

Shayla. God, she was beautiful. Clad in a simple black one-piece with pink and white stripes down the sides, she was squealing with laughter as she caught a wave that looked, to him at least, to be as tall as she was.

Not just beautiful, he thought, but lovely on the inside, too. Cindy had so wanted to ride some waves but neither Lewis or Shelly was inclined to do so, and so Shayla had jumped up and grabbed her own board.

"Come on, honey," she'd said. "We'll show 'em what they're missing!"

So now the two of them were riding those boards, and Shayla was laughing with Cindy and calling out as if she was still a kid herself.

Young at heart, he thought. There was still enough kid in her to make her playful. Hadn't she proven that to him already by putting a smiley face on his morning pancakes? By digging the sand from beneath his feet and burying them?

He glanced down at the mound of sand covering his feet and smiled, watched her and Cindy heading back up from the water, dragging the boards behind them.

"That was so awesome!" Cindy was saying. "I thought that wave was going to wipe you out for sure!"

"Nah." Shayla dropped her board to one side and squeezed the water from her hair, shook it out. "I've had bigger waves than that one before. I did wipeout pretty good once, when I was shredding this ten foot tube off Maui."

"Maui?" Lewis asked. "As in every surfer's dream?"

"The same." Shayla picked up her towel, wiped the salt from her eyes. "We took a vacation there once, when I was sixteen, and I rented a board and went for it. It was the wildest time I've ever had. I managed to get some really good rides, and some great tube time, before one of them just closed up and swallowed me."

"Tube time?" Lewis asked. "What's that?"

"Riding inside the tube of the wave as it's curling," she answered as she eased herself into her beach chair beside Bobby's. "That's every surfer's dream, too."

"Oh!" Cindy exclaimed as the music changed. "Kid Rock. This one's my favorite!"

" 'All Summer Long'," Shayla said, reached to turn up the volume. "Mine, too." She tapped out the beat on the arms of her chair and began to sing along.

Shelly stole a glance at Bobby, saw the smile curving his lips, and fervently hoped that he would just let go and let himself fall in love. It was easy enough to see he was already well on his way.

She sat Toby on her knee, rocked with him to the music, and knew that she had never been so happy in all her life. Not only did she have a husband that she loved, and who loved her, but she had this precious little boy, too.

And then she grinned as that lovable, slightly goofy husband of hers stood up and grabbed Cindy's hands, whirled her into a dance right there on the sand, and had her laughing and trying to keep up.

That was her Lew. Playful and silly, and he didn't care one bit that some of the others on the beach were staring at him with raised eyebrows and amused smiles.

"Woo-hoo!" Shayla hooted at them and laughed. She swung her hand out and gave Bobby's arm a tap. "Shelly and I have already decided that she and Lewis are the brother and sister I never had. And look at him…he's already living up to the family tradition!"

"You have a lot of dancers in your family, huh?" He was much too content here, he thought. Sitting here on the beach, watching Lewis and his niece dancing in the sand and thinking how perfect everything was, just in this moment.

"Oh, we all dance," she said. "Mama and Daddy used to go out dancing at least once a week, sometimes more. They won the shag contest in North Myrtle three years in a row. My father used to say my generation was deprived because we grew up not knowing how to do all those partner dances of the past. All that bumping and grinding isn't really dancing, he used to say. There's no finesse, no style."

She gave a quick laugh. "Old fashioned, that was my Daddy," she said. "He taught me a few of those old dances. The shag, of course, and then we moved on to the jitterbug, the rumba, and the cha-cha. I was probably the only girl in my class who didn't groan at the prospect of dance lessons in gym class. I already knew most of them."

She got up, pushed her chair aside and spread out one of her beach towels, then plucked her suntan lotion from her tote, handed it to Bobby. "Can you put some more on my back?" she asked. "Most of it washed off while I was swimming."

He nodded, leaned forward when she knelt beside his chair. He rubbed the lotion over her back slowly, every brush of his fingers over her skin bringing back the memory of what it had been like to make love to her, to wrap himself around her and hold her as she slept.

Attempting to settle himself, he traced his fingertip over her tattoo. "Tinkerbelle," he said. "It suits you."

"My father nicknamed me Tinkerbelle when I was little," she told him. "After they died, I went and sat for the tattoo."

"To honor his memory." He skimmed his finger over it again. "I like that."

Delighted that he got it, she smiled, gave a soft chuckle. "My Uncle Jimmy calls me Gidget," she said. "I've toyed with the idea of having a surfboard tattooed on my other shoulder."

"I want a tattoo," Cindy piped up, back on her towel now. "But my mom won't let me get one."

"I'll tell you this, honey," Shayla said diplomatically. "Listen to your mama and wait until you're a little older, then, if you still want one, think hard about what it is and where you put it. The thing about ink is, once you have it, it's there and you have to live with it, so it should be something that you'll still be able to stand looking at when you're an old lady."

"Can't you get tattoos taken off now?" Cindy questioned.

"You can." Shayla nodded. "But it's extremely expensive and hurts like the devil, or so I've heard. It's more painful to get one taken off than it is to have it done in the first place. Which is why you want to be careful what you get and where you put it."

"Wise advise," Shelly commented, with an admonitory glance at Cindy. "A few more years, Cin. Then you'll be able to do whatever you want. Until then, try not to give your mother any more grief than you have to."

"Geez, Aunt Shelly, I'm a teenager. Giving my parents grief is what I'm supposed to do, isn't it?"

Tickled, Shayla tossed her head back on a laugh. "Holy cow," she chortled. "Truer words were never spoken!"

She stretched out on her stomach, put her back to the sun, and pillowed her head on her arms. She could just see Bobby's fingers, drumming lightly to the beat of the music on the arm of his chair.

Her stomach did another one of those wild tumbles and made her smile. She reached up, gave his arm a gentle stroke, then settled back down and closed her eyes, enjoyed the sound of the ocean, the conversation going on around her.

This was summer, she thought. Relaxing on the beach with friends, just being herself.

All those years with Owen, she'd never been able to just be herself. Never been able to relax at all. What friends she did have were all in name only, acquaintances of Owen's and not really friends to her at all.

But this…this was how it should be. How it had been for her once, when she was young, before she'd met Owen. She'd had friends in the neighborhood, at school, and they had all run wild on the beach together, having the kind of harmless fun that summer was known for.

Fireworks and picnics, cookouts and beach parties with bonfires and dancing. Those had been good times. Happy, carefree times.

How wonderful to know that happiness like that still existed, that friends could still be made and love could still win.

Even as she thought this, she felt Bobby's hand brush lightly over her back. She rolled over and sat up, leaned over to lay her head on his arm with a soft sigh. His other hand was stroking her hair now, and she could feel his resistance lowering a little.

"I'm about ready for another swim," she said after a few minutes. She lifted her head, saw the wistful smile on his face. "What about you?"

"I don't know about that thing," he answered, gestured toward the boogie board. "Maybe I could just watch you."

"Forget the boards. We'll body surf." She stood up, tugged at his hand. "How about it?"

How could he resist her? Standing there like she was, looking so pretty with her hair gilded by the sun and her smile so sweet. He took her hand, rose from the chair.

"You going to wear your shirt in the water?" she asked.

He glanced down at the faded gray t-shirt he'd worn with his swim trunks. "I wouldn't want to scare the tourists away," he joked. "Probably better if I keep it on."

"Get out!" Shayla rolled her eyes. "There ain't a thing wrong with the way you look. Built like a linebacker is what you are, and you wear it well."

He shook his head with a small laugh, felt the blush creeping up his neck as he relinquished the t-shirt and tossed it over the back of his chair. "Okay?"

"Absolutely." Shayla grabbed his hand. "And y'all think us girls worry too much about how we look. Sheesh!"

He laughed softly, very aware that Lewis was grinning behind his back. "Okay, okay," he said. "Point taken."

The water felt a little cold at first. He would have waded in a little at a time, but Shayla all but dragged him in until he was waist deep and she was laughing as the waves rolled in, pushing her back as she tried to get out further.

She dove beneath the next one, surfaced to find him beside her. "The idea," she told him, "is to get on top of the wave when it crests, then drop with it and let it carry you."

"Is it really an exact science?" he grinned and was rewarded with a playful shove.

"Cute," she said. "Tossing my words back at me." She tossed her head. "Don't listen to me then. You get rolled, just hold your breath and go with it. Eventually you'll hit bottom and be able to stand up."

He reached out, curled an arm around her and drew her close, caught her mouth lightly with his. "What happens if you get stuck on the bottom?"

She circled his neck with her arms. "You can't get stuck when there's this much momentum," she murmured. "The wave just sort of carries you."

"You got that right." He kissed her again as the water swelled gently around them and her body slid against his. "Too bad we're not alone out here."

"Wait a few hours. When the sun starts setting, we will be." She rested her head on his shoulder as her legs curled around his waist. "This is nice," she murmured.

"It is," he agreed.

They floated together as the swells lifted them. He stroked her back, turned to press his lips to her ear. "Shayla…"

"Are you going to try telling me again how messed up your life is and you just can't do this?"

"I was, but I guess I don't have to say it since you can read my mind." He tried to be flippant about it.

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "You want to tell me some of these ways that your life is just so much more of a mess than anyone else's? That way, I won't be frustrated when I find out that I really can't read your mind after all."

"We'll be out here till midnight if I do that."

"Good." She kissed him lightly. "Then we'll be alone and we can do what I know you're still thinking about."

He shook his head. "You're too damn cute for your own good," he told her. "Sassy. Your ex…he hurt you…but you didn't let him defeat you."

"He beat the fight out of me for awhile," she said matter-of-factly. "Until I dug deep and realized that it wasn't gone…just buried under years of abuse. It took me awhile to find myself again, but eventually I did."

"You're a fighter." He rubbed her back gently. "And you don't play games. I knew that, too. I was coming over to apologize to you for leaving the way I did, and then I just…when I held you I couldn't remember what I was going to say. I got caught up…in you…in everything." He drew her close then, hugged her as the next swell lifted them. "I don't want to hurt you, Shayla."

"I know." She stroked her hand through his hair, so curly now that it was wet. "I love you," she said softly.

"Since we've already decided that love is neither logical nor sensible, I won't ask you how that's possible."

"Good."

"I'll just ask you why."

"Why?" She rested her cheek against his, felt his beard tickling her skin. "You want the simple answer or the complex one?"

"Let's start with the simple one."

"Because you need it." She drew back a little so she could look into his eyes, lift her hand to touch his face. "Because you're giving up and you need someone to love you and remind you that it's not too late."

He sighed, shook his head. "It is too late," he said quietly. "I'm well past the point of no return."

"You're not," Shayla said with a gentle, easy stroke of her hand over his cheek. "You're just blinded by your pain." She put a soft, sweet kiss on his mouth. "I promise you, if you let me love you, you'll never be the same again."

"I'm already not going to be the same," he said. "That's what worries me."


July 27, 2008

Sometimes this seems like such a waste of time. Not sure why I keep doing it. Or why I feel the need to sit here and put down something that sounds like I'm figuring all of this out. I guess I'm supposed to be looking inward. Kind of hard to do when you're squeezing your eyes shut. I'm sure Olivet could come up with a great psychological metaphor for that one.

I don't know how to feel anymore. Anything. And I was just fine with that, until yesterday. Until Shayla looked at me with those big blue eyes and yanked my heart right out of my chest. I can't even write about her, think about her, without feeling like I'm falling. Like there's nothing but air under me and I'm falling. But there's no impact, no bottom to hit. There's just this feeling of floating, of weightlessness.

God, what's she done to me? A little flirtation, Lew said. And now she says she loves me. And she means it. I want it. I want it too damn much. It's going to kill me if I don't let her in. Or if I do. But there's nothing for her to find. Cobwebs, maybe. Empty rooms.

I feel dead. Dried up. Maybe this is why Frank stayed high all the time. So he wouldn't feel like this. But then, destroying himself was worse. So was destroying everyone around him. Mom. Donny. Evelyn. Me. The list could go on and on. Maybe Dec was right. Maybe Frank is better off dead.

God! I don't mean that. I should erase it, pretend I never even thought it.

It hurts. It really hurts. I don't know how to live anymore and I'm walking blind, just like Shayla said. How the hell did she see that? How can she know? It's like she's got some kind of window into my head, or maybe my heart. What's left of it. It's a pitiful mess.

She's waiting for me now. Sitting on her porch swing, listening to the night, with her head full of dreams. She wants things from me that I don't have. I think she wants to give me something she thinks I want. I don't know how to tell her that I can't want it anymore than I can let her give it.

I should stay away from her. I don't know how to stay away from her.

I'm afraid she wants to save me. But she can't. She can't save me anymore than I could save Frank. And I tried. I always tried. It hurts that I couldn't, that he wouldn't let me. I'll never forget the last thing I said to him. If I could take it back, I would. If I could go back to that day and put those words back in, I'd swallow them and never, ever say them.

Why didn't I tell him I loved him? Even when he was yelling at me, I could have said it. I could have told him how much I hated to see him stumbling through life, making a mess of himself the same way Dad did. Why didn't I just open my mouth and tell him that I loved him anyway, even if he was right. Even if sometimes, I really didn't want to be his brother.

No I didn't want to be the one responsible for him. I didn't want to be the one fishing him out of the gutter, looking for him in the homeless shelters or on park benches. I didn't want to walk down that alley and find him laying there with his eyes staring up at nothing. I always knew it would end that way someday. I hated knowing it. I wanted to stop it. Why couldn't I stop it? Why couldn't I help him? Why wouldn't he let me?

I didn't want to be the only one taking care of Mom either. I wanted help, and he couldn't do it. I know he couldn't. It never did any good to be angry at him for that. He wasn't responsible enough to take care of himself, much less anyone else. So how can I hold it against him?

And how can two people manage to screw up their kids so damn much? Or maybe I should wonder how two adults could spring from those two messed up people with any sense of themselves at all.

I know who I am and it's not because of my blood. It's who I made myself. I had two fathers, one who gave me his genes and one who gave me his name. I have nothing but anger and contempt for both of them. And what does that make me?

I wish I could love Shayla. I wish I could hold her and accept the love she offers. I wish I could give her my heart and trust her to keep it.

I want her, and I don't. I want to be with her, and I want to stay away from her. She scares me. She fascinates me. She stands there and holds out her heart to me, opens her arms and offers shelter.

Her presence comforts me. I don't know how to feel about that.

And she's waiting for me right now with stars in her eyes and romantic notions spilling out of her heart. I don't know how to feel about that either.

Bobby sat back, pulled his fingers off the keys and read over what he'd written. And then he shut off the computer, got up slowly, and went to meet Shayla. To sit on the porch swing with her and think of all of the reasons why he shouldn't be there. Or all of the reasons why he should.