"Are you always this clumsy?"
"I wasn't clumsy. You frightened me, sneaking up like that."
"Who did you think it was?" he asked dryly. "There aren't a whole lot of
other people around here, or hadn't you noticed?" Frowning, he bent to
gather apples that had fallen. "You should be more careful. You could
break a leg that way."
"Is that the voice of experience talking?"
His jaw was tight. "You could say that." He tossed more apples onto her
jacket. But he only used his right arm. The left hung idle.
"Is your arm all right?" she asked.
He glanced sharply up. "It's fine."
"You favor your right."
"It's fine. Can you walk?"
As she stood, testing the knee, he pulled her jacket around into a
bundle, lifted it, and set off for the house.
She limped after him. By the time she reached the kitchen, he had put
the apples beside the sink and disappeared. Grateful for the privacy,
she collapsed into a chair, twisting her arm to see the scrapes on her
elbow.
"Here, let me take a look at that."
Before she could resist, Mitch deposited a bottle of disinfectant and a
washcloth on the table, pulled up a chair, and took her arm. His touch
was warm. When she tried to pull back, he held her arm more firmly. She
winced at the antiseptic's sting.
"THAT'S That's enough!"
But he disagreed, repeatedly dabbing the dirt from the wound before
kneeling and reaching for her knee.
"It's all right," she insisted.
He raised his head. His jaw was hard, his cheeks lean, but his eyes were
surprisingly soft. Something stirred inside her.
"I'll do my best not to hurt you, but it should be cleaned." Very
gently, he pushed the jeans past her knee. He applied disinfectant to
the scrape there, blotting it to ease the sting.
Anne watched his shoulders flex as he worked, easy to see since his
turtleneck fit him as snugly as each of his others had. This one was
dark green. By contrast, the silvery-blonde of his hair was striking.
"There, now," he murmured. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" With both hands
cradling her leg, he surveyed his work. His tone was gentle, his touch
even more so, and when he raised his eyes, they were the gentlest yet.
Her breath faltered.
He curved a hand to her neck. His thumb feather-touched the soft swell
of her lips. For an instant he hesitated, and Anne's breath held.
With eternal slowness, he raised his mouth to hers in a kiss that was
little more than the tantalizingly light movement of his lips. When she
made no protest, he deepened it, coaxing her mouth open with a
gentleness that was worlds away from the first night's force.
Anne was entranced. She couldn't think, because this wasn't part of her
plan. But she could feel, and what she felt was overwhelming, the purest
pleasure in a meeting of mouths, a touching of tongues.
Abruptly he pulled away, and sanity returned.
With a gasp she bolted from the chair and, ignoring a twinge in her
knee, went to the far side of the room. Mitch stood, keeping his back to
her as his breathing steadied. When he finally faced her, he had his
passion in check.
By that time, she was trying to understand herself. Because she
couldn't, she lashed out at him. "You had no business doing that."
His lips thinned. "I don't seem to recall your objecting."
"You didn't give me much of a chance."
He approached, studying her eyes, the heat on her cheeks, the tiny
quiver of her lips. He frowned. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
"I don't want your pity!"
"Pity?" His features tensed. "I don't deal in pity. I've seen enough of
it in the past year to make me sick. No, Anne, if you can't recognize a
basic physical need, then you're deluding yourself" His gaze narrowed.
"Let's just say I took my reward for playing nursemaid to a bad-tempered
tomboy."
She gasped in dismay, but he was on his way out of the room, which was
probably just as well. That way she didn't have to eat crow, because he
was right. She would be lying if she refused to admit that she liked his
kiss. She had been physically roused by a physical act.
But it had been only a kiss, only a kiss in the midst of bizarre
circumstances. Come next week, the cottage, the kiss, the man would all
be memory.
Gradually, she calmed. She began paring and slicing apples, piling skins
on a piece of paper towel, turning the slices into a large glass pie
plate and sprinkling them with cinnamon. Her supplies were dwindling,
but she found adequate amounts of flour, butter, and sugar for the
topping. Once the pie was in the oven, she spotted the unused apples.
She washed each, polished it to a high gloss, and set it in a dish in
the center of the table. It wasn't until the dish was filled that she
saw Mitch eyeing her from the doorway.
She was quickly defensive, "Is something wrong?"
"Just looking to see that you're all right."
"I am. I actually forgot.. ." She gestured toward her bruises with a
sheepish grin.
"Glad to hear it." With a dip of his head, he left the room and, soon
after, the house.
Anne immersed herself in the last of her work, while the scent of baking
apples filled the air. The pie was delicious, by her immodest estimate,
a perfect finish for the early dinner she ate alone. Again, dusk found
her reading before the fire.
"Anything good?"
She looked up and blushed. "Just a romance." She was actually enjoying
it without thinking of Jeff at every turn of the page. When Mitch set
off for the kitchen, she called, "There's apple pie on the counter. Help
yourself" She grinned when he looked back and arched a brow. "Even
bad-tempered tomboys have their merits."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"By the way, I put the peels out for the deer."
"I wondered where they'd gone, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse
in the mouth. Do deer like apples?"
She learned the answer the next morning.
A warm hand shook her awake. "Come, Anne. There's something you have to
see!"
She was disoriented only until she saw Mitch in his robe at the window,
waving her along. Rolling out of bed, she joined him there and followed
his pointing finger. Under a patch of mist in the yard, by the base of
the old apple tree, a young doe was munching at the remains that Mitch
had tossed out. As they watched, the lithe animal stood on her hind legs
to pick a fresh piece of fruit.
"Deer do like apples, wouldn't you say?" His breath fanned her ear, its
warmth enhancing the moment's pleasure.
"That was beautiful," she murmured when the doe finally moved off into
the mist. "Thank you for waking me." She turned to find him very, very
close, and she thought about that kiss. All he did this time, though,
was to give her arm a gentle squeeze, then leave.
By the time she showered and went to the kitchen, he was dressed. As he
gazed absently out the window, the freshness of morning gentled his
features.
"Coffee?" she offered quietly.
"Ummm." He paused, slowly turning to look at her. "And a piece of that
apple pie. My compliments to the baker."
"Apple pie? For breakfast?"
"Sure. Call it danish, if the thought disturbs you. But it was good."
She set to making coffee, somehow lost count and thought that maybe she
added an extra scoop to the basket. She let it stand. "Swedish apple
pie. My mother's recipe. Easy and good. Actually, now that I think about
it, my dad used to have it for breakfast, too." Fearful that she'd
spoken too personally, she quieted.
He must have wondered about that quiet, because he asked, "Is your
father dead?"
"Oh, no. But it's been years since I lived at home."
"Do you live in the same place you did with your husband?"
"Yes."
"Does it bother you?"
"Sometimes." An understatement.
"Do you have children?"
"No." Regretfully.
"You're lucky."
Frowning, she lowered the gas under the perking coffee. "Why do you say
that? I've often thought it would have been easier to have part of him
left."
"It isn't," Mitch said tightly. "Take my word for it."
Anne heard vehemence enough to suggest personal experience. She wanted
to ask more, but it seemed against the rules. When he didn't offer more
himself, she figured he agreed. Anonymity was best. Definitely.
He finished his pie and coffee, tossed a playful, "Getting better!" over
his shoulder in passing, and left her to add coffee to her own cuppa
Joe. Soon after, he left the cottage.
Noise from the kitchen late that afternoon announced his return. Anne
put the finishing touches on the piece she had translated, stacked her
papers neatly, then paused. She sniffed the air. There was a new, vile
smell.
"You went fishing!" she moaned from the kitchen door, staring in horror
at the mess on the counter. She crinkled her nose in disgust.
"Now, now," he chided, "it may smell bad at first, but once this bass is
fried, the end result will be worth it. You'll join me for dinner, won't
you?"
The invitation sounded sincere. He looked sincere issuing it. This was
her last night at the cottage. She'd had a week's worth of time, space,
and her solitude.
Oil sizzled in the skillet. The sound oddly inviting.
"If you have enough," she said graciously and was rewarded with a smile.
"Oh, I have enough. More than enough, and whatever we don't eat tonight
goes to waste. This is great bass. Trust me. I'm a champion fisherman."
"And an immodest one," she added, smiling back. She didn't doubt his
ability for a minute. She half-suspected he would be good at whatever he
did. He had an air of competence that went well beyond an arrogant jaw.
Indeed, the fish was delicious. As was the fresh-squeezed orange juice
she found at breakfast the next morning. He was, it seemed, a handy man
to have around.
This was Anne's last morning in Vermont. To her surprise, when she
headed for the woods, Mitch fell into step beside her, and it was as
peaceful a hike as any she'd had. There was silence, the soft sounds of
nature, and Mitch's occasional comments. He was knowledgeable in the
ways of the forest and had a wealth of information to share. He talked
about species of trees and flowers, habits of woodland creatures, the
history of the area itself, and did it all in an easygoing,
unpretentious manner. He read Anne well, and knew when to speak and when
to be still. She was almost sorry when they arrived back at the cabin,
since her next chore was to pack.
Too soon that was done. With her luggage stowed in the trunk, she put
her key in the ignition-and for a brief minute hoped her engine would
fail. It was a possibility, wasn't it? She hadn't started the car once
all week.
But it coughed to life at the first turn, and hummed smoothly as it
warmed. Which left only one thing left to do.
She was about to climb from the car when that one thing rounded the
house. "You weren't going to leave without saying good-bye, were you?"
he asked, bending to talk through the open window of the car.
"I was just going to come and find you."
"Do you have all your stuff.?"
"Uh-huh. I left the rest of the apple pie for you."
His eyes sparkled warmly. "Thanks. You do make a good one, even though
your coffee is still too weak."
"Then you'll be glad to be rid of me." She smiled wryly. "When do you
leave?"
"Later today."
"Oh." What else to say? His fingers curved over the window ledge. They
were strong fingers, nice ones.
"Will you be back up here at all?" he asked quietly.
She shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't thought too far ahead. It's been
a good week, though. I'm sorry to be leaving."
"It wasn't all that bad, was it?" He seemed suddenly hesitant. "Look,"
he began tentatively, "I'll be coming up the week before Thanksgiving.
Kind of to give myself a boost before the holidays. Keep it in mind." He
stopped short of an open invitation, but the implication was there.
It struck her that she would probably want a boost herself. "I'll
remember." She cleared her throat. "Well, good-bye, then."
He smiled, hit the ledge once, and pushed himself straight. "Safe trip."
When he stepped away, she put the car in reverse, backed around, and
headed for the road, all the time thinking that she might have liked a
kiss. It was a whimsical thought. Not so whimsically, his lank image
shrank steadily in the rearview mirror. When the car took a curve and he
disappeared, she narrowed her sights on reality and New York.
How different the road looked this time around. Parched brown leaves
blanketed the ground, forests of bare branches joined evergreens in a
blur of gray-green on distant hills. Mountains stood stark, more harsh
without greenery on their slopes. Leaf peepers had long since gone home
to city beat and thoughts of Thanksgiving, barely two weeks away.
Those thoughts had precipitated Anne's trip, or so she told herself as
she drove steadily north. On one hand, things had improved in New York.
Her return trip had been uneventful, her apprehension at facing life and
its memories eased by the onset of autumn and a renewed strength.
"You look marvelous!" her mother had said the first night of her return.
"I like that pink on your cheeks. It becomes you."
