Read What the Waves Bring Online
Authors: Barbara Delinsky
What the Waves Bring (3 page)
She pushed herself from the chair with a sigh, only to fall back again when the light in the doorway flickered and died. Even white teeth punished her lower lip as she held her breath, awaiting return of the currentâbut to no avail. The phone was dead ⦠and now the lights! Though it was mid-afternoon, darkness hovered about the house. For long moments she put off lighting the lamp, bent on preserving her supply of kerosine. Finally realizing that, for the sake of her sanity alone, light was imperative, she wandered into the living room, struck a match and found herself in a room newly golden and atmospherically warm. Warmâfor the time being, she reminded herself, aware that the furnace depended on electricity to function.
Ah well, she mused, eyeing the fireplace wistfully, there was always that cord of wood stacked neatly in the basement. And after all, she reasoned, it was really not
that
cold outside, being barely the start of October. Only the wind, with its continuous wail, and the rain, clattering mercilessly against the panes, implied a harsher season.
Ah well, she mused, eyeing the fireplace wistfully, there was always that cord of wood stacked neatly in the basement. And after all, she reasoned, it was really not
that
cold outside, being barely the start of October. Only the wind, with its continuous wail, and the rain, clattering mercilessly against the panes, implied a harsher season.
Pacing the floor, she began an analytical review of her situation. Here she was, several miles from the nearest outpost of humanity, and given the damage of the storm, a good day or two from help. She had neither lights nor a telephone; her Apple was hopelessly, albeit temporarily, crippled. And there was the small matter of the stranger in her bed, felled by exposure and exhaustion and Lord knew what else, perhaps in need of medical attention. What was she to do, given the impracticality of panic?
Memories of a letter that had arrived the day before entered her mind. It was to be the subject of her next column. Crossing the room to her rolltop desk, she fished into the large manila mailing envelope sent by the newspaper office, withdrew the item she sought, then sank down on the sofa beneath the glow of the kerosine lamp.
“Dear Dr. Wilde,” she read silently. “Can you help me? I have a family of three squalling children and a husband, a rabbit, two dogs, and a house. Lately, everything has gone wrong. The children scream constantly at one another, my husband screams at me, I scream at them allâabout everything from food to clothes to television shows. To top it off, every machine in this house has managed to break down within the past two months. I go to bed every night with a headache. Is there any peace to be found for me?” It was signed simply “Hartsdale's Harrowed Housewife.”
Settling more deeply into the sofa, April contemplated the letter for several moments before rereading her own answer, typed and clipped to the letter, awaiting transmission via computer. “Dear Hartsdale's Harrowed
Housewife.” She scanned the page quickly. “What you need is a cram course in positive thinking. Look to the bright side of life. Do you love your children? Are they innately rewarding? Sensitive? Companionable? Do you love your husband? Is he honest? Faithful? A conscientious provider? And the houseâdoes it keep you warm? Dry? Protected and private?” Skipping over a greater elaboration on the theme, her eye came to rest on the final sentences. “Hard as it may be at times, you must seek out the positive aspects of your life. In these, you will find your peace. Remember, think
up!”
Housewife.” She scanned the page quickly. “What you need is a cram course in positive thinking. Look to the bright side of life. Do you love your children? Are they innately rewarding? Sensitive? Companionable? Do you love your husband? Is he honest? Faithful? A conscientious provider? And the houseâdoes it keep you warm? Dry? Protected and private?” Skipping over a greater elaboration on the theme, her eye came to rest on the final sentences. “Hard as it may be at times, you must seek out the positive aspects of your life. In these, you will find your peace. Remember, think
up!”
Think up.
The words echoed in her mind as April replaced the letter in its envelope, the envelope on her desk.
Think up. That, Dr. Wilde, is precisely what you must do right now!
Wasn't it her own personal credo, one that appeared repeatedly, in one form or another, in her column? Wasn't it the backbone of her therapeutic approach?
The words echoed in her mind as April replaced the letter in its envelope, the envelope on her desk.
Think up. That, Dr. Wilde, is precisely what you must do right now!
Wasn't it her own personal credo, one that appeared repeatedly, in one form or another, in her column? Wasn't it the backbone of her therapeutic approach?
Looking around, she evaluated her assets. There was the house, standing valiantly against the ravage of Hurricane Ivan. There was the kerosine lamp, providing what little light she needed with its pale orange glow. There was the fireplaceâand woodâready for warmth, should the need arise. There was a pantry full of edible provisions, gas to make the stove operative. And ⦠there was that man in the other room, resting peacefully and seeming to hold his own. All in all, she was not in bad straits. And, assuming her patient did not awaken a raving lunatic or a lecherous demon, she might get him to the village before long and find herself with nothing more than painless memories of the entire adventure.
Suppertime came and went to the unabated accompaniment of the storm's blusterous racketâyet still no sound at all from the stranger. Evening's torrents became midnight's deluge. April sat tucked in the rattan chair in her room with her feet curled beneath her, eyes glued to the nameless figure asleep in her bed. Was hers but one vigil
for this man? Did he have family somewhere? A wife? Children? Parents? Friends? Were they keeping their own, more painful watch for his return?
for this man? Did he have family somewhere? A wife? Children? Parents? Friends? Were they keeping their own, more painful watch for his return?
The helplessness of the situation frustrated her anew. If only the telephone lines had not fallen, she might have called the authorities to tell of a missing person now found. Or she might have used her Apple to seek information on the man washed up on her shore. Wire services, newspapersâall would have been at her fingertips. But ⦠the elements had conspired against her. Indeed, she smiled ruefully, the elements had been responsible for the very shipwreck that had thrown this man into her hands. Or had they? What had caused his accident? Only he could have the answer to that.
And so she satâthinking, debating, questioning, puzzling, then gradually wearing down as the needle-thin hands of her fine gold watch neared three o'clock. She finally acceded to the necessity of sleep, realizing too well that the new day which had already begun might be as trying as the last. Extinguishing the lamp in the living room, she stretched her cramped limbs on the well-worn cushions of the sofa and helplessly drifted into oblivion.
The room was lit by broad daylight when next she moved. Though the wind had died down, the steady pelt of the rain brought the events of the past day to her consciousness. With a burst of awareness she bolted up and headed for the bedroom. She stopped abruptly on its threshold. The pillow still held the indentation of his head; the sheets were rumpled from his body. The man himself, though, was gone.
In a flash she forgot any grogginess there might have been, as well as the hint of a cramp in muscles crunched up through the night. She headed for the kitchen and found it empty, then ducked into the spare room with similar results, finally winding up before the half-closed door of the bathroom. On impulse she lent her weight against the fast-yielding doorknob, then gasped at the sight of the lather-faced St. Nick returning her startled gaze in the mirror.
For that moment of speechless suspension, their eyes locked and held. His were as dark as she had imagined them to be, though deep and strangely cautious. Hers were softer, warm with relief, more rounded in astonishment. Their periphery encompassed his bare chest, the towel at his hips, his hand stilled in mid-air holding a razorâher razorâand frozen in the act of shaving.
“I'm sorry ⦔ she whispered at last, blushing and awkward. True, this was
her
house and, given the condition of this man when last she'd seen him, she'd had every reason to worry. But to brazenly intrude on his privacy ⦠In hasty retreat she backed from the small room and closed its door firmly.
her
house and, given the condition of this man when last she'd seen him, she'd had every reason to worry. But to brazenly intrude on his privacy ⦠In hasty retreat she backed from the small room and closed its door firmly.
He stood so tall,
she mused, stumbling her way to the kitchen, absently straightening the badly wrinkled clothes in which she'd slept. But of course this was the first time she'd seen him standing of his own accord. Before her own
five feet four, his height was impressive, not to mention the electrifying gaze, warming her even in memory.
she mused, stumbling her way to the kitchen, absently straightening the badly wrinkled clothes in which she'd slept. But of course this was the first time she'd seen him standing of his own accord. Before her own
five feet four, his height was impressive, not to mention the electrifying gaze, warming her even in memory.
Her hands busied themselves with the mindless chore of setting a pot of coffee on to perk, as she reconstructed the image just seen. Standing before the sink, he wore nothing but that towel draped casually across the slimness of his hips. Little had been hidden; yet had she not seen it all yesterday? The difference, she reflected, was in the man himself. Yesterday, he had been helpless; today he was not. While she had sleptâand a fast glance at her wrist told her that it was nearly nine-thirtyâhe had made himself at home, familiarizing himself with her facilities and supplies, even heating the waterâher eye spotted the large pot drying face down on the counter by the kitchen sinkâthat would be necessary for a satisfactory shave, since the hot-water heater was electrically run.
Thoughts of the storm brought her eye to the large window overlooking the shore. Ivan the Terrible, though perhaps a bit blunted, was nonetheless still in torrential evidence. Little repair work would be accomplished until the rain eased. And that meant another twenty-four hours, minimum, in her present marooned state. What might her now-lucid guest think of
that?
that?
Her gaze shot to the door as the man in question materialized as though on cue. His face, despite its purpled bruise, was smooth and tanned, as healthy-looking as any stand-in Florence Nightingale could desire. His hair still glistened from its dousing in the sink, but it was brushed neatly
(thank you, April, for the use of your brush),
adding a touch of civility to the figure that had not yet spoken a word.
(thank you, April, for the use of your brush),
adding a touch of civility to the figure that had not yet spoken a word.
As had happened moments earlier in the bathroom, their lines of sight collided and held for long, silent moments. As she awaited his initiative, April sensed a guardedness about him. He seemed to be looking at her, into her, through herâall in one, painfully prolonged stare.
Finally he blinked and shook his head imperceptibly, releasing her from his hold.
Finally he blinked and shook his head imperceptibly, releasing her from his hold.
“I think,” he spoke for the first time, his voice deep and smooth despite the awkwardness suggested by his sheepish expression, “that I have a problem. I can't seem ⦠to find my clothes.” His dark eyes fell for an instant to the towel slung low on his hips, then lifted to hers with a silent question.
“Oh!” April exclaimed, jumping forward with an apologetic smile. “Of course! They're right in here. I washed them yesterday; they finished drying last night.” Her voice tapered off as she entered the side mud room, reached for the clean clothes, and returned to the kitchen, offering them to their rightful owner.
Again he held her gaze as he took the clothes, studying her closely with the wariness she'd noted before, yet smiling in return. “Thank you.”
With an uneasy shrug of the shoulders, she moved back uncertainly. “You're welcome. Ah,” she turned to lower the light beneath the coffee now perking, “would you like something to eat?”
“That sounds good.” He stood motionless, following her every step, undaunted by his state of undress.
Feeling strangely plundered, April nodded as she walked to the refrigerator for the eggs. By the time the carton lay on the counter beside the large cast-iron frying pan atop the stove, her guest had disappeared, presumably to dress.
Hopefully
to dress, she amended, as a semblance of reason returned to her.
Hopefully
to dress, she amended, as a semblance of reason returned to her.
How stupid!
She slammed her fist onto her hip in self-reproach. What of all the questions, that small voice within her demanded, that had plagued her since she'd first found this man? She hadn't asked a one! What
had
come over her in this stranger's presence? Had it been the mesmerizing sight of his body, which was magnificent, to say the least? But she had seen it before! Had it been the
intensity of his gaze, so dark and magnetic? Perhaps. How simple it should have beenâand how expedientâto ask who he was, where he came from, and how he'd gotten here. She hadn't even asked him how he was feeling!
She slammed her fist onto her hip in self-reproach. What of all the questions, that small voice within her demanded, that had plagued her since she'd first found this man? She hadn't asked a one! What
had
come over her in this stranger's presence? Had it been the mesmerizing sight of his body, which was magnificent, to say the least? But she had seen it before! Had it been the
intensity of his gaze, so dark and magnetic? Perhaps. How simple it should have beenâand how expedientâto ask who he was, where he came from, and how he'd gotten here. She hadn't even asked him how he was feeling!
“That's better.” His deep voice cut through her thoughts, drawing her about-face with a start. Again, she caught her breath. For he was the proverbial swashbuckling hero of days gone by. Clad in the navy turtleneck jersey which showed the muscled breadth of his chest to perfection, and the snug, dark denims, he seemed taller, if possible, and even more powerful than before. In accent to his well-groomed hair and fresh-shaven face, the dark bruise high on his cheekbone lent an air of the rogue about himânot in any way unappealing. It was this very mark of his ordeal that captured her attention.
“How do you feel?” she asked softly, dragging her eyes from him to remove the eggs from the pan with a large, slotted spatula.
“Not bad. Somewhat weak in the knees. A little sore.” He stretched his back, flexing its muscles from side to side, as he gave his report. But it was the ending uplift of his tone, its odd expectancy, which drew her eyes back to him. His own gaze was downcast, as long, lean fingers gently prodded the bruise on his cheekbone. His dark brows drawn together, he seemed puzzled. Certainly he had questions of his own to ask, she mused, placing a plate of eggs and buttered toast on the table. As a therapist, it was her style to give her patients freedom to talk at their own speed. Ignoring the small voice that accused her of taking the coward's way out, she now resorted to that same tack.
Fixing a plate for herself and two glasses of orange juice, she sat at the table, gesturing for him to do the same. “I'm sorry that it's not eggs Benedict,” she said, trying humor to relax them both, “but I'm not what you'd call a gourmet cook.” Her words caught his attention as he eased his
long frame into the chair. He studied her for long moments before finally surveying the fare.
long frame into the chair. He studied her for long moments before finally surveying the fare.
His smile was genuine. “This will be fine.”
As they ate quietly, April cast surreptitious glances his way, occasionally meeting his own gaze before quickly darting away. Her appetite was negligible due to the subtle tension, the air of expectancy that permeated the atmosphere of the room.
“Looks pretty wet out,” he observed softly. She followed his gaze toward the window, then repeated her thoughts of earlier.
“Uh-huh. I doubt we'll be able to get anywhere todayâ
or
that anyone will be able to get to us. The wind may have died down a bit, but with the rain continuing like that, the roads will be a total washout for a while yet.”
or
that anyone will be able to get to us. The wind may have died down a bit, but with the rain continuing like that, the roads will be a total washout for a while yet.”
“Where are we?”
It was the first such question he'd asked; April looked up sharply. He had put his fork down, his interrupted appetite the only sign of the inner turmoil he camouflaged admirably. “My houseâthis houseâis on Nantucket Island.”
He seemed relieved that her answer had been offered so freely. “How did I get here?”
“I saw you adrift offshore,” she explained, somehow expecting that he would have recalled something of his plight and subsequent rescue. “When the surf deposited you on the sand, I managed to help you to the house.”
The haze of bewilderment played in his eyes for endless moments of ensuing silence before a mask of calm settled over his features. Looking down once more, he resumed his meal, eating slowly and thoughtfully. April studied him freely, trying to anticipate his thoughts. Strange, she decided, that he was so quiet ⦠.
Like a slow-burning fuse eking its way toward an inevitable explosion, the tension spiraled about them as the erstwhile mariner continued to eat. It was a psychological
standoff, with neither ready to break through to the crux of the matter. When the last of his breakfast had disappeared, he carried his plate to the sink, to her marked bemusement.
standoff, with neither ready to break through to the crux of the matter. When the last of his breakfast had disappeared, he carried his plate to the sink, to her marked bemusement.
“Coffee?” he called evenly over his shoulder.
“Please.” She accepted his offer, unsettled, yet oddly pleased, by the spontaneous switch in their roles. His courteous gesture, small as it was, showed a sensitivity she admired. If only she could relax! Yet relaxation was a world away. Something in this man's mien kept her alert. It was as though she were on the verge of being dissected, studied from the inside-out, pieced together bit by bit. Her hand curled about the warmth of the coffee cup as she waited nervously for something to happen. The steady tattoo of the rain against the windowpanes was the only sound to break the silence.
Why didn't he introduce himself? Why did he hesitate to ask the myriad of questions that any man in his right mind would have? Was he in his right mind? Gazing up at him through the shadow of her thick brown lashes, she saw a paragon of strength and composure. Only his downcast gaze and the furrows momentarily marring the span of his brow gave credence to his dilemma.
Shipwrecked on a strange shoreâit was an unlikely occurrence for even the most adventurous of contemporary men. What was the train of thought now clattering through his mind? He sipped his coffee with an air of preoccupation, oblivious for the moment of April's presence. Her own coffee grew cold as her patience expired; finally, she could take the suspense no longer.
“Who are you?” she burst out, with a vehemence quickly tempered as the words were echoed more softly. “Who are you?”
As a seasoned therapist, she should have been a model of understanding, of tolerance, of sympathy for all he had endured. But she was no impartial bystander in this case.
As the woman who had harbored him through chills and a fever, she needed a straightforward answer to this most pertinent question. His reaction, however, was a portent of puzzlement to come. For long moments after hearing her question, he studied the rim of his coffee cup as though debating, to her astonishment, whether to answer her. Just as April took a breath to ask him again, he raised his head slowly and put forth his words with careful and obvious measure.
As the woman who had harbored him through chills and a fever, she needed a straightforward answer to this most pertinent question. His reaction, however, was a portent of puzzlement to come. For long moments after hearing her question, he studied the rim of his coffee cup as though debating, to her astonishment, whether to answer her. Just as April took a breath to ask him again, he raised his head slowly and put forth his words with careful and obvious measure.
“I thought
you
might know that.”
you
might know that.”
Comprehension eluded her. “W-what?”
His voice remained steady. “I was hoping you might know my name.”
“Me?” Incredulously, she stared at him.
“Then you don't know who I am?”
“Of course not!” Something within her snapped. “I've never seen you in my lifeâuntil you were washed into it yesterday morning!” She studied him closely, perplexed by his apparent confusion. Was he a fugitive? A wanted man? Did he wonder whether she recognized him? Or whether his cover was safe? But he looked so bewildered. Very slowly, realization dawned. “What are you trying to say?” she prodded softly, not taking her eyes from his face for a minute. “Surely you remember ⦔ Her words died in the face of his reluctant but definite headshake.
“You don't remember ⦠your ⦠accident?”
He shook his head once more. “No.”
“The storm?”
“Not beyond what I see outside now.”
She took a deep breath and braced herself. “Your name ⦠?”
Now there was pain in his expression, as this last, most crucial, question drew a similarly negative response. No further words were needed.
“No name ⦠nothing?” She looked down at her entwined hands as she whispered the facts in disbelief. His
eyes, searching hers for answers she did not have, countered her incredulity effectively. “My God!” she cried softly, attempting to assimilate this awesome and far-reaching discovery. “It must have been the gash on the head.” She swiveled back. “How is it now?”
eyes, searching hers for answers she did not have, countered her incredulity effectively. “My God!” she cried softly, attempting to assimilate this awesome and far-reaching discovery. “It must have been the gash on the head.” She swiveled back. “How is it now?”
Gingerly, he fingered the finely scabbed slash. “Now that it's done the damage, it's fine.” The edge of bitterness in his voice was short-lived. This man, she realized intuitively, was not one to bemoan the fates for long. “Tell me,” he asked, directing his intensity her way, “was there any sort of identification on me when I washed ashore?”
“I-I don't think so.”
“Think hard,” he directed sternly. “Were there any papers in my pockets when you”âhe paused to clear his throat, though he didn't seem to be truly embarrassedâ“undressed me?”
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