The brochure advertises cozy looking bed and breakfasts, styled in the Cape Cod architecture and design so popular along the eastern seaboard. The island has plenty of quaint little shops and intimate restaurants, but I can't help but wonder if Harm and I are ready for this. I mean, if we go someplace like Nantucket Island we're talking a big deal. This is not some two-, three-hour drive into the mountains to reach some rustic cabin in the hills. If Harm and I go, if we do this, we're talking a trip to Dulles to catch a plane to Boston, and then another plane to the island.
And then, beautiful Nantucket Island is a tourist trap so everything there is priced accordingly. Lodging, food, transportation. Even a weekend could start to add up. And there are a few things I would like to get in preparation if we were to go. Like a new dress, or skirt and blouse, or slacks, or something. I don't want to just wear the same old stuff he always sees me in. I'd like to do something special for him, for us, and get decked out. Let him know what he's been missing for six years and that he should take this opportunity to thank his lucky stars and show me how much it means to him.
Are we ready for something like that? I mean, we've just gone from simple getaway to full-blown, planned, romantic weekend. We're talking about spending some major dollars to be alone together. Airfare alone is going to be around $300 per person.
Are economical concerns the only reason why, now, going away together seems to be such a huge investment?
And, I have to consider, we are on an island. If the weather turns bad, or even worse, if we have a fight, we're stuck there until we either work it out, or we can find—
Two arms suddenly hook around me, and I ram my elbow back instinctively.
"Ooof!"
I pivot around and see Harm doubled over, clutching his abdomen.
"Harm!" I gasp in utter horror. What did I do, what did I do?!
I just injured my best friend and partner, and boyfriend, and what, one day, could have been my husband and father of my children. What a way to show a guy you care, MacKenzie—letting have a taste of his own blood.
"Oh, Harm! I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it was you—I mean, I didn't think. You startled me—oh! Oh, are you okay? Say something, Harm!"
A wheeze is my only response.
Oh crap, oh crap, oh CRAP! Okay, think, MacKenzie. You are a trained marine.
Oh, obviously—you almost killed Harm with your finely honed reflexes.
Harm utters a raspy groan and attempts to right himself.
"If you were . . . still pissed . . . about me . . . reaming you out, you could . . . have just said . . . something. You didn't have . . . to resort . . . to outright violence."
Well, at least he's making jokes.
"Oh, God," he groans. He's still flushed in the face, and sounds winded. "I'm just going to," he pauses to pant for a second then continues, "sit down—in there—" he points to the living room "—for a moment, and I think I'll call it a day and go home."
"Harm . . . "
He shakes his head slightly in a gesture that indicates he's really not in a mood to have a discussion about anything.
"I'm so sorry, Harm," I say again, helplessly. "Here, let me help you."
"No, no. It's . . . okay, Mac." He lets out a hollow laugh. "And here I was thinking the other day your vaulted marine reflexes were slipping."
I know he's trying to ease my pain, and his, but I feel so incredibly stupid and sorry right now that I can't help the tears that spring to my eyes. Why do the men I date always end up getting hurt because of me?
"Well, serves you right for doubting the Corps," I offer with a sniffle, but my joke falls flat before me.
With his hand still clutched around his middle he turns towards the door. "Help me to the couch, marine."
I hurry to his side and slip an arm around his waist, supporting him. "I'm so sorry, Harm. You just surprised me and I reacted without thinking—I forgot you were here—"
"I called your name several times. You never—oof—answered."
"I didn't hear you. I was thinking about some things. Here we are." We turn slowly, so that our backs are to the sofa. "Gently," I say, as Harm gingerly eases down onto the cushion. He gives me a look that plainly says 'you don't have to tell me.' "Lie down." I arrange the pillows so he'll be more comfortable.
"Ahhggghh . . . " he half groans and sighs. He smiles weakly. "That'll teach me to sneak up on marines."
I offer a weak smile of my own, "Yeah, you should know better anyway. Harm, maybe we should get you to the doctor."
"NO, no," he answers forcibly. "I'm okay. You just knocked the wind out of me, that's all."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Just give me a minute to recover."
"Whew. Thank goodness I didn't hit you that hard."
"Not that hard?" he repeats, still gasping. "I think your elbow actually touched my spine. Any lower, marine, and I wouldn't be the father of your children."
A giggle escapes despite myself. He raises an eyebrow, and I quickly raise a hand to my mouth to cover my smile. "It's not funny," I say quickly, shaking my head, attempting to get my laughter under control but the look he's giving me right now is making it difficult.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I say, not sure if I'm apologizing for elbowing him in the stomach, or because I'm laughing about it now.
"Well, I guess I should have known it would be too much to hope for some womanly sympathy—especially from the femme fatale responsible for this." He sighs theatrically and stares at the ceiling. Then his eyes flicker to mine to see whether I'm buying this performance, and I am relieved and overjoyed to see the familiar warmth and good-natured teasing in their depths.
I giggle again and tug at the arm still clamped over his stomach. "Harm," I say, calming down, "let me have a look."
"A look at what?" He asks nervously.
"Your stomach. I want to see if there's any bruising. Come on," I tug again on the resistant arm.
"I'm fine, Mac." As if to prove his point, he struggles to a sitting position, unable to refrain from groaning and moaning from the pain and exertion. He may be sitting before me, but the whole effort just reinforced my conclusions that he's not as okay as he would like me to believe.
I reach for his shirt collar and start undoing his buttons.
"What are you doing?" he asks, more than a little concerned.
"I'm not going to be satisfied unless I see for myself."
He chuckles nervously. "A little forward there, aren't you, marine?"
"No." Then I realize what he's implying and feel my cheeks warm. I don't dare look up at him. Instead, I just concentrate on relieving my battered partner of his clothes. I get his blouse undone and pull it, along with his T-shirt, up, but his pants still block a good portion of the area I want to see. Thank God I didn't say that out loud. I reach, with trembling hands, for his belt, and as soon as it's out of the way, I start for the button to his slacks. I remember not too long ago wanting to do this, but the reason for it then was quite different than the one fueling me on now.
I don't know why this is . . . getting to me. I've seen Harm undressed before. He wears plain white boxers admirably. But then again, I've never undressed Harm before and it's a little unnerving with his eyes on me, and without the haze of passion to fog the senses.
A large hand covers mine, and I almost sigh in relief when he pulls my hand away. He struggles to stand, and quickly loosens his pants and slides the waistband of his boxers down, out of the way, so I have a good view of the area in question—his abdomen—but nothing else.
"I don't see any bruising," I murmur. I'm ashamed to say I'm not really looking too hard. The sight of his strong abs and dark chest hair has me mesmerized. He's gotten a bit thicker around the middle with age, but the well-defined muscles of his torso are still apparent despite the years and the relative inactivity since his crash last May.
My, oh, my, is he a fine specimen.
Hummina-hummina-hummina.
I slide my hand over his stomach in a reverent caress before something jolts me back to reality.
Okay. Stop drooling, MacKenzie.
"Does this hurt?" I carefully prod the area with my fingers.
"No, not really," is the response, after a quick intake of breath. I fix a hard stare at the stubborn man before me and find myself lost in that sea-green gaze.
"Satisfied?"
"Huh? Oh!" I wrench my hand away. For good measure I stuff it in my jeans pocket. "Yeah, yeah. I guess you're okay. Um, you'll let me know if you start feeling . . . pain, or nauseous, or anything?" I take one last sweeping look of his fine physique as he straightens his pants and shirt again.
"You were wanting some tea. You still feel like tea? I'll get you some tea." I slip into the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
Wow. I always suspected it. I always knew. But, damn, that man has one incredible body.
*********
I plop down onto the couch as soon as the swinging door swings closed. I let out a breath I've been holding—or rather, I've been unable to expel—since razor-sharp elbows in there nailed me. If I wasn't feeling a little bit woozy, I have to say I would have enjoyed that little inspection a lot more.
I hear her clamoring about in the kitchen, cupboards opening, water running, pans banging, and I hope it will keep her occupied for a few minutes at least while I quietly bleed.
Okay, so maybe it isn't quite that bad, but I have a newfound respect for her defense abilities. I massage the point of impact, probing the area for—I don't know, any distended organs—but I seem to be okay.
That determined, I lean my head back and close my eyes. Why the reaction from Mac, anyway? She only whips out the kung fu when she feels threatened, attacked, or if she's startled when she's already keyed up about something. All she was doing was looking at something on the counter. A magazine, if I remember correctly.
She didn't even hear me when I called her name. She said she was thinking. Obviously some deep thoughts for her to tune out everything around her. Something's up. Should I press her about it? Maybe she is still angry about the way I handled her testimony at Bud's trial.
Or it could be something else. Something worse.
Crap, what else have I done that may have upset her? Well, there was that thing with Caroline, but I thought we talked about that—that things were okay. What else?
She was also upset about my matchmaking efforts—particularly when it meant Ms. Cavanaugh was on the receiving end of the wrath that should have been reserved for Sturgis and I only. Mac made sure that I knew she held the admiral and I equally accountable. She also made sure that I remembered she had warned me about getting involved in Sturgis's scheme, in the first place.
Beyond that, I'm not sure what else I could have done to upset her. There is the hope that whatever it is that's bothering her has nothing to do with me. And, of course, there is also the hope that nothing is bothering her.
"Hey Mac?" I venture, but I swear to myself that this is as far as I'm going to go with it. If she doesn't answer, I'm just going to wait here on the couch no matter what.
"Mac?" Well, it doesn't hurt (actually, it kind of does, as it flexes my abdominal muscles) to yell a little louder.
"Yeah?" she appears a breathless moment later, all concern and empathy. I decide I should probably move around—that unfortunately means getting up—before she starts fussing over me again.
I stand without too much effort and follow her into the kitchen, keeping a wary eye on her. She notices my glance and gives me an exasperated look. Hey, you can't be too careful around a marine.
I make a cursory glance of her kitchen and notice a kettle brewing on the stove (my tea, presumably), a Lipton Green Tea box beside it, and a brochure with a few pamphlets scattered around it by the barstools. I make a move towards the latter when she notices my heading and whisks the items away.
Uh-huh. Interesting.
"Whatcha reading, Mac?" I ask casually.
"Oh, nothing, really. Just looking at a few things." Yeah, right. I'm expected to believe this? I got hit in the stomach, Mac, not my head.
"Oh, well, what are you looking at?" I stare at her intently, invoking my best investigative glower.
"Oh, just a brochure, uh, and a couple pamphlets about, er, eh, architecture."
"Can I see?"
"It's kind of boring, really. I'm sure you'd ra—"
"I could use something to take my mind off this ache." A low blow, I know, but whatever is in that brochure is worth flaunting my injury and making Mac feel guilty. I pat my stomach and make sure to smile apologetically.
Slowly, she pulls the brochures and pamphlets out from behind her and clutches them to her chest. I can make out Hist and ucke from one of the covers. I hold out my hand eagerly.
"Um, before I let you look at them, maybe I should, um, explain, um . . ." Explain? I raise an eyebrow and wait for her to continue.
"See I, uh, I got to thinking, you know, about our weekend getaway, and I thought—well, for one, I thought given everything that's happened, the Smoky Mountains might not be far enough away." I chuckle softly in agreement. "And, uh, two, I just got to thinking that wouldn't it be nice to really . . . go someplace romantic."
"Would you rather spend a weekend in Jamestown?" I ask, wondering how architecture fits into all this.
"Actually, I was kind of thinking Nantucket." The teakettle sounds and she dumps the brochures in my laps and hurries to the stove—where her back is conveniently to me.
I flip through the brochures, noticing of the five she has, four have to do with Nantucket Island, and the other one, New York City. The four pertaining to the island all describe lodging, events, restaurants and shops. There's also an internet printout with airfare information.
I glance at her, but her back is still to me as she carefully pours steaming water into a mug. I look through the pamphlets and brochures and I can see the appeal of the place—and the widespread Cape Cod design.
"Looks nice," I agree. "A couple nice romantic dinners, maybe a little time spent exploring the shops . . . " or not, I think, " . . . a nice cozy little inn . . . perfect for a little atmosphere," I hint suggestively, and I see a smile adorn her face.
"Maybe," she concurs after a moment. "It just . . . "
"What?" I slide off the stool and closer to her, reasonably safe in the assumption she won't try any more karate moves on me.
"Well . . . I mean for one thing, it's a lot of money. I mean airfare, lodging, meals, transportation . . . it all starts to add up."
"Well, you're worth it," I reply. For an instant her eyes lock onto mine, all brown and watery and vulnerable, with a spark of delight visible deep in their depths. Why does she always seem so surprised when I compliment her? "But I suspect that's not the real reason you're hesitant."
She bites her lower lip as she looks down at my tea.
"I—you don't think it's—such a big step?"
Uh-oh. Best to tread lightly, Rabb.
"Well, we were planning to spend a weekend in a cabin in the mountains. What's a weekend on an island in an inn?"
"Yeah, but Harm we were planning on driving to the mountains and then just renting a cabin."
"Yes," I confirm. I'm not sure what her point is here.
"Don't you see?"
I hate these kinds of questions. I swear only women think these up. If you answer "yes" you run the risk of them calling you on it, and if you answer "no" you run the even greater risk of them holding that ignorance against you. Since I can't think up a good response, I stick with honesty, and pray it won't be the source of yet another rift between Mac and I. "Um, no, I guess I don't, Mac."
She places my spoon on the counter with a loud clatter and shifts her weight to one hip.
"It's a totally different scenario, Harm!"
Ooookay.
"How so, exactly?"
"Well . . . for one thing . . . " she picks up my spoon again and starts stirring. "For one thing . . . we have to fly," she finishes, as though the thought just occurs to her.
"Yes. It's too far to drive in a weekend." Is she worried about the plane ride? As long as it's not a tomcat she does fine flying.
"Exactly."
Okay, maybe she did clobber me on the head, or perhaps my injuries are far more severe than previously thought, because I am just not getting this.
"Mac, why don't you tell me what's really bothering you." I take another seat on the barstool, and she shifts her weight to her other hip before answering.
"I don't know," she says quietly. "It just seems to be a big deal now. I can't explain it."
"Big deal how? We were already planning to go away together. This is just a different location." Then it hits me. "Do you still want to go away together?"
"Yeah," she says after a moment. "I do. It just seems . . . " she looks at me and I nod for her to continue, "It just seems that if we go to Nantucket that we're really taking a big step. That we're saying something here. That we're, you know, committed or something. I don't know how else to explain it. It's just different than some weekend special we had planned in the mountains. It's stupid, never mind, never mind. Here's your tea." She sets it before me and hauls out of the kitchen.
"Mac!" I grab my tea and hustle after her. I catch her just before she disappears into her bedroom. Jingo's standing by the door, looking nervously between us, while Sarah wrings her hands together, her back to me.
"If it's too fast, Mac, we can slow down. I don't want to pressure you, Sarah," I say, shushing that insistent voice that reminds me 278 days. I'm not about to pressure her, unlike some people in her recent past. I can respect her wishes.
"No. No, I don't think it's too fast. Well, maybe. No. No, there are definitely some days where I think it's not moving fast enough." She smiles abashedly, and I have to smile as well at her pretty expression.
"What is it, Mac?" I take a step closer to her, setting my tea on one of her paleontology books.
"Think about it. You and me, going away for the weekend. A romantic weekend."
"Stranger things have happened."
"If everything goes well, than, yeah, it's great," she says, and here is the crux of the problem, I think.
"But . . . ?"
"But, if the weather turns bad or if—or if—"
"Or if we get into a fight?" I supply.
"Yeah," she whispers, "then we're stuck. In the mountains we can just drive back."
"Not if the weather's bad," I point out. "So, what you're worried about is 'us'?"
"Well, aren't you?" she asks a bit defensively.
I shrug. "We always fight, Mac. Our bickering is one of the absolutes in life—after death and taxes. The problem is not the fighting, but how we deal with the issues behind the argument. If we do like we used to, just ignore it and hope it goes away, then yeah, we have reason to be concerned because it just festers and causes serious problems. But if we talk about it—like now—and like we agreed to when we decided to go forward with our relationship, then I think things, yeah, might be a little bumpy at first, but eventually it will be okay."
She gapes at me, with her mouth slightly open, and I can't help feeling a little surprised myself. I almost sound like I might know something about serious relationships—at least learning something about real relationships. My mother would be proud.
So would the long list of girlfriends who have dumped me due to that particular deficit.
"Wow."
I shrug again, and take a seat on the davenport.
"Incredible."
I take a sip of my lukewarm tea.
"Who are you and what have you done with Harmon Rabb?"
"Ha, ha, marine. Is it really so surprising that I would say that?"
"That you would say that? Yes. Yes, it is." She plops down next to me. She places a hand against my forehead.
"Do you have to do that every time I say or do something that's just remotely outside my normal operating procedure?"
"Remotely? You knocked that one out of the park. I'm impressed. There's hope for you yet, Harm."
"Don't spread that around."
"I wouldn't dare," she says in mock seriousness, eyes bright and wide. "You really are something," she murmurs, smiling.
"So . . . are you still wanting to go away for the weekend?"
"Yes."
"Name your destination, Mac."
"I kind of like Nantucket," she ventures.
"Nantucket it is, Mac. You want to book the flight, or me? Or do you want to reserve the hotel room and I book the flight?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa—it's not that simple, Harm."
What now?
"If we go to Nantucket it's going to be expensive. You're not going to shoulder all that on your own."
"So? I already told you're worth it. Whatever it costs has to be a bargain for the pleasure of your company for an entire weekend." She rubs a finger against my cheek, before replacing it with her mouth. "I mean that, Sarah," I state softly. She leans forward again to graze my lips gently with her own.
"We're still splitting the costs," she retorts when she pulls away.
Arrrgghh. Stubborn jarheads.
**********
TBC . . .