DEDICATION
To Donna, because everyone needs a friendwho will take the kids last minute soyou can write.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Icouldnever have written Foundin Hope without certainpeople in my life.
Donna, mypartner in crime, has been there in so many ways to help withmy writing. Whether it’s encouragement, a kickin my butt, or taking me to see Thunder Down Under for inspiration, she always knowsjust what Ineed.
Christine Connolly: as a bloggeryou’ve always taken your supportone step further andIloveyou for it! It's so noticeable.
My author buddies Shannon, Tarina, Michelle D., Danielle, K.M, Stephanie, andCaroline:you allhave helpedme in suchunique andamazing ways through thisjourney, andIcan never forgetthat.
My editor, Katriena: Iknow Ihave the righteditor when Ican messageyou over random things and you always replygraciously…even when I'm practically beggingyou to readmy blurb.
Ican't forget my awesome readers, bloggers, and beta readers. Thankyou for loving my characters as muchas Ido.
Lastbutdefinitely not least, Ineedto thankDeputy Lamson from the Big Bear Sheriff’s Department for
taking time outofhis busy schedule to answer some questions. He was so nice about it. Thankyou for your service.
CHAPTER ONE
Red and silver neon lights blinked from the sign above Jamie’s head, identifying the Silver Spur Bar to the dark parking lot. The modest, wood-paneled structure wasn’t anything spectacular. It looked like any other bar in Big Bear, California, but for Jamie it was an escape from the empty living room awaiting him at home; an excuse to not sit on his beat-up leather couch, sipping on a beer and flipping through uninteresting late-night television.
He let out a sigh and opened the door of his green Frontier. He wished he could have stayed longer with his best friend—and Alpha —Killian, but the looks Cat had been shooting over made even small conversation uncomfortable. Going on three months after their mating ceremony, and they still struggled to keep their clothes on. Why they had even bothered to invite Jamie over for dinner was beyond him. It was probably a test to see if he could tell whether Cat had cooked or not. Oh, he could. His stomach still curdled at the thought of the watery mashed potatoes and overseasoned chicken she’d set on his plate.
After working a twelve-hour shift at the police station and then having dinner at Killian’s, he probably should have gone home.
However, he couldn’t drag his mentally and physically exhausted body to the lonely existence awaiting him there. Instead, he pushed through the oak door boasting carvings of horses and trees. The scent of smoke-covered bodies and cheap booze bombarded his senses, and he welcomed the presence of his fellow bar buddies. Music cranked from the overhead system, thumping his insides with the tempo of good old country music. A kaleidoscope of lights flooded the dance floor with different colors bouncing off bodies as they attempted to keep the beat in their drunken state.
Big Bear hosted a ton of tourists every year, primarily during the summer and winter as they flocked to the lake and campsites surrounded by mountain scenery. The crowd inside was evidence that summer was in full swing.
He bypassed the dance floor with its writhing bodies, only interested in the dark U-shaped bar at the other side of the building. The bartender smiled at him, despite her energy-sapped eyes.
“Haven’t seen you in a while. Do you want your usual?” She’d already reached over to grab his drink, drawing his gaze to an arm covered in white tattoos, a sharp contrast to her ebony skin.
“Yeah, sounds good, Lucy,” Jamie shouted over the music, dropping down on a stool next to an older gentleman with a gray beard stretching to the middle of his chest. They nodded to each other in acknowledgment before resuming their I’m-alone curve over the edge of the bar.
Lucy popped the cap off his beer and slid it over to his waiting hands with practiced precision.
“That’s my girl,” he said, tilting the mouth of his beer toward her in thanks. Lucy laughed and tucked a couple of her long braids behind her ear before heading to the other end of the bar.
Peeling the label off the amber glass, Jamie twisted the stool to watch the dancers; the energy pulsing from the small dancing square built with the quickening music. Women danced with women, giggling and throwing their hair in wild circles. Couples danced together with intense rapture, caught up in the grinding of their hips. Then there were always the men on the side, prowling for the women who caught their eye. Much better than late-night television.
A wave of fresh air came from the entrance, and a scent hit him: Shifter. He leaned his body slightly to see who walked in the door. Maybe Finn or Brian—his packmates—had decided to stop by for a drink. But it wasn’t their scent, and it wasn’t a man standing there, but a woman, taking in her surroundings with pursed lips. She shrugged an oversize purse closer to her body. Lights danced across her as she sniffed deeply, her nose crinkling before her gaze darted toward Jamie. He gulped down some beer and nodded at her in acknowledgment. What was an unfamiliar shifter doing in Big Bear?
She strolled across the floor, her long legs traversing the space with confidence and her barely there shorts riding up with every step. Damn. The loose brown tank top she wore did nothing to hide the curves and generous breasts beneath. The fabric swayed with each step of her sandaled feet, and Jamie wanted nothing more than to see what was underneath. She walked right to him, and hell if he could blame her; he was the only person in the room who wasn’t heavily intoxicated, wearing a mile-long beard, or smelled like urine.
He knew the body language of a woman. Whether it was from his years as a cop or his love for the female specimen, he noticed a woman’s hidden hints. And this woman was no different, but she wasn’t hiding it either. As she slid onto the stool next to Jamie, her silver eyes glittered with challenge as she licked her red-painted lips. She pulled her wavy black hair over to one side, wafting vanilla into the air. Blood shot straight to his groin. God help him. He loved vanilla.
“Hey,” she said. Her voice had that natural rasp to it that always drove him wild. Jamie was suddenly glad he’d decided to skip the marathon of horrible shows.
He smiled, turning on his stool to fully face her. “Hi.”
She flicked her hand to Lucy, the movement causing a tiny ring on her forefinger to glint in the lights. Lucy leaned against the bar to hear over the loud music.
“I’ll have a whiskey sour,” the woman said. Lucy nodded and started to walk off before the woman continued, “And he’s paying.”
A thumb pointed at Jamie, and he laughed, both at her challenge and the wide-eyed glance Lucy shot his way.
“It’s fine, Lucy. Just get it for her.” He stared at the peculiar female in front of him. She tapped a long, teal-painted fingernail against the dark wood counter to the tempo, looking at the bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. “I think I deserve to at least know the name of the woman I am buying a drink for, don’t you?”
She tilted her head, a smile curving her lips. “Skylar.”
“Skylar.” He rolled the name over his tongue. Only a girl with the confidence she portrayed could get away with a name more traditionally masculine. “I’m Jamie.”
He held out a hand, which she took gently into her own. Smooth skin met his palm, and he wanted to rub his fingers across the tender flesh of her wrist—to find the erogenous zones most women didn’t even know they had. Skylar pulled her hand back leisurely, trailing her fingers along his palm as her gaze traveled the length of his body.
Lucy set a glass down in front of her, ending the moment. Skylar cleared her throat and took a sip of her drink, pursing her lips against the sour taste.
“So, Jamie, what is there to do in Big Bear?” She inflected his name saucily.
“Depends on what you’re into.”
Skylar shot him a sideways glance, eyes twinkling with mirth. “I’m into just about everything.”
Jamie’s throat closed as he choked on the sip of beer he’d just taken. The hidden message behind her words rattled him, sending his dick so many signals it wasn’t even funny. A song with an upbeat tempo started playing, saving Jamie from having to respond.
“Well then, I guess that means you’ll be into dancing with me?” He tilted his head toward the dance floor.
She eyed the floor and its flurry of bodies. As much of a flurry as it would ever get, anyway. Jamie’s stomach sank with the realization she might turn him down.
“Sure, cowboy. Why not?” Skylar downed her drink and slammed the glass on the bar before she stood from the stool. Jamie chugged
the rest of his beer, set it down, and then followed her to the dance floor.
Her hips swayed side-to-side as she moved to the center of the dance floor. Jamie followed, entranced by the subtle movement as she familiarized herself with the beat of the song. It didn’t pass his notice that the men on the outskirts of the floor gravitated toward her. Or the way her eyes locked on to his with a come-hither stare. And he definitely noticed the way his pulse quickened at the promise of what could happen by the end of the night.
She moved to the music and closed her eyes, content to keep space between them. But he wasn’t. Jamie reached out a hand to grasp her hip, pulling her to him hip-to-hip, chest-to-chest. Her eyes shot open, silver pools burning with need and a subtle shade of loneliness. He leaned over, placing his lips to her ear.
“This is how I dance.” He ground into her, letting her feel that she wasn’t the only one who felt the desire. Even if it was only their shared loneliness and similar species, it was enough for them at that moment. To need. To feel.
She rubbed against him, stroking his hardening dick with the small movements of her shapely hips. Jamie shoved a leg between hers, pulling her closer for the ride. It only drove him wilder when she didn’t once remove her gaze from his. Just the look on her face was enough to have him take her home. And she knew it. A growl rumbled from his chest when her hands slid under his shirt to touch the bare skin of his back. He slid one hand from her hip to her lower back, successfully pulling her closer. She shivered and gasped beneath his fingertips as the closeness pushed his leg harder into her clit. God, he could probably make her orgasm right there. With the friction of their bodies and the chemistry between the two of them it was entirely possible. Until the DJ changed the song to something slow.
Why they were continuing the charade, Jamie wasn’t sure, but it still thrilled him. They both knew where they were going to end up, but teasing was all part of the fun. Pulses raised, cheeks flushed, erotic desire. What good was sex if there was no exciting foreplay beforehand? He moved his leg but kept her close, swaying their two
bodies back and forth to the ballad. She brushed her nose against the spot just below his ear, her hot breath sending ripples of pleasure down his spine.
“I like this song,” Skylar whispered.
“Yeah? I think it’s a little overplayed.” It was too hard to focus on the lyrics with the way her ass felt in his hands. He stroked the top of her shorts with his thumbs, dipping them inside now and then just to hear her sharp inhalation.
“The lyrics are incredible.” She paused to lick her lips. The tip of her tongue brushed across his skin. His whole body pulsed, and he sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing her in response. “Don’t you think it sounds like us right now?”
“Hmm. I don’t know about that. I want to go home with you pretty bad, not just be alone with you.”
“You’re such a guy,” she said, laughing, and he caught the subtle twang of someone from the Northwest. She shifted to look up at him. Their lips were inches apart, and their breath mingled. Her parted lips practically begged him to lower his. And damn if he didn’t want to. “So, what are you waiting for, cowboy?”
The permission in her eyes mixed with the words shot through his veins, fueling his need. Jamie stared at her, hesitating for a moment and lost in the rainbow of emotion swimming within the silver pools of her eyes, then grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door.
* * * *
Jamie struggled to focus on the road back to Wolf Creek with the sexy woman next to him occasionally glancing his way to lock eyes, and jiggling her leg with anxious excitement; at least he hoped that was why she jiggled it. When he pulled up into the short driveway in front of his cabin, he shot her a smirk before jumping out to open her door, only to find her already halfway out. She slid from her seat and eyed his home appreciatively.
The log cabin sat tucked behind towering pine trees, its small exterior homey and inviting. Rolled log beams accentuated the Aframe roof, and stone pillars surrounded the small front porch. The natural materials graced its surroundings with quiet elegance. Multicolored hostas surrounded the foundation of the home, a bright
splash against the shaded location. His sister, Jessica, had said his home needed to look lived in and took it upon herself to plant them, and he didn’t have the heart to let them die. It was home.
“It’s nice. Very cozy.” She smiled and shrugged her purse higher on her shoulder.
“Yeah. I like it.”
Skylar hadn’t moved from her position next to the truck, so he grasped her hand and entwined his fingers with hers, tugging her toward his home. The screen door squeaked in the silence of the night, and his keys jangled as he tried to find the right one in the darkness.
Ofallthetimestoforgettoleavetheporchlighton,JamieLewis, he mentally chastised himself.
Finally finding the right key, he swung the door open and flipped the two switches by the door, illuminating the living room and entryway. He pulled her in and shut the door behind them as she took in the house. In the living room to the right, a single broken-in fabric couch sat in front of a flat-screen mounted above a grand stone fireplace. Shadows and yellow light glinted across dark granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. In the small dining room, a thick, oak table with six matching chairs filled most of the space beneath a circular chandelier with mock candles.
He pointed toward the kitchen. “Want a drink?”
Skylar turned back to him, the indecisiveness in her eyes almost making him take her back to the bar. But then her tongue flicked out to her upper lip; her fingers tugged at the hem of her tank top, ever so slowly bringing it higher. She shook her head and stepped closer to him until his back bumped into the front door. She pulled the material over her head and then pushed her body closer to Jamie’s, the brush of her breasts against his shirt sending electric desire shooting through his system. Licking his lips, he watched the shirt fall to the ground in a tantalizing heap.
“Do I look like I want another drink, cowboy?” she whispered, her husky voice full of desire.
Jamie dropped his mouth to her cherry-red lips, crashing into them, desperate for a taste of the siren in his entryway. His hands
shot to her head, his fingers digging into her thick waves, bringing her closer.
She was fire—red-hot and dangerous to touch—but so tempting. And God, her taste. He’d only had one beer, yet the taste of her mouth had his head buzzing as though he’d had a twelve-pack. She sighed into him, opening her mouth for his tongue and pressing her body closer. Her shorts-clad hips dug into his throbbing dick at the same moment his tongue tangled with hers. She ground into him like she had on the dance floor, and he groaned at the rippling desire catapulting up his spine.
He picked her up, his fingers digging into her curvy ass. Her tongue flicked his, and her legs wrapped around his waist. She gave a throaty laugh and tugged at the ends of his hair. He yearned for more of the delicious taste flooding his mouth, one that was uniquely hers: whiskey sour mixed with something purely Skylar, like vanilla and spice. He wanted to see if the rest of her tasted the same.
He kicked his bedroom door open, thankful it had already been ajar from earlier that morning. He dropped her in the middle of his bed and watched as her body bounced from the impact. Large breasts shook beneath a black strapless bra, threatening to break over the cups. She unbuttoned her shorts and gazed up at him in invitation.
Jamie knelt on the mattress above her and pulled her shorts down to reveal black lace panties. He crawled up her body to kiss her lips before traveling down her neck, tasting every inch of her skin. He savored her flavor, every gasp that passed from her lips encouraging his journey down. He unclasped her bra at the same moment his lips met the rise of her breasts. His mind wanted to go slow, to relish the texture of her skin, the taste of her nipple as he closed his mouth on it, the way her nails scraped his scalp in pleasure. But his body begged to go faster. To push her to the brink and plunge into her welcome warmth.
Leaning on one elbow, Jamie moved the other hand down her stomach and into the front of her panties. Smooth, burning heat met
his fingers, and he groaned at the feel of her slick need at his fingertips.
“Damn, sweetheart. You’re so wet.” He dipped one finger into her folds, tracing it up and down the silken lips. Skylar moaned, and her hands shot to his shoulders. She dug her nails in, and he wasn’t quite sure whether it was to push him away or pull him closer.
“Jamie…” she whispered, but he plunged a finger inside her and his name ended on a groan.
Her breathing accelerated with each stroke of his finger. Fuck, she was so sexy. Large breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath, lips parted, and eyes closed in pleasure. The way her hips rose with every thrust. He couldn’t help but watch as she got closer to the brink. Her legs tightened around his arm, and her back arched. The walls of her pussy clenched around his fingers, and damn if his dick didn’t harden in response. He was tempted. God, he was tempted just to let her go. Let her orgasm right there. But he wanted to be inside her when that happened. So he withdrew his fingers right when he knew she was there.
Skylar’s thick lashes shot open in surprise, a gasp of simultaneous pain and pleasure erupting from her mouth.
“Jamie, what the hell?”
“Hold on, sweetheart.” Jamie leaned down until his lips were next to her ear. “I want to be inside you when you come.” Before he pulled away, he bit on her earlobe, eliciting a shiver from her body.
He regretted getting up to get the condom, but it was his rule. Especially for bar pickups—shifter or no shifter. Pants removed and protection placed on his throbbing cock, he got back on the bed. She looked like the definition of erotic. Her black hair fanned out over his sheets, her curves welcoming him into her embrace. And the look in her eyes. Fuck.Desire, need, challenge. She made him want to give her the best night of her life. But at the moment, his dick was in charge.
Crouching above her, he leaned down to kiss her again, brushing across her plump, swollen lips with their erotic flavor. She wrapped her legs around him and sighed into his mouth.
“Don’t make me wait too much longer, cowboy.”
Jamie laughed, positioning himself at her entrance. The heat of her core beckoned him closer until he entered. Shit. Even with a condom on, it felt amazing. He groaned as every inch of his dick buried within her and her walls tugged at him to go deeper.
“Fuck,” Jamie gasped, licking his lips and trying not to come just from the sensation of her.
“Yeah. Fuck,” she whispered, but dug her fingers into his ass.
The way her thighs tightened around his waist, the way her fingers pulled him closer gave him the permission he needed. He withdrew to the tip of his cock and watched the anticipation light up in her eyes. When he slammed back in, he felt smug satisfaction in the way her eyelids fluttered closed and a groan of approval shot from her mouth. They pushed and pulled one another, each to the same tempo but trying desperately to bring each other to the final precipice. It was a challenge to see who would go first. Who would succumb to the fierce thrust of his cock into her core. Well, fuck if it would be Jamie.
He tilted his hips, and the pleasure rippled through both their bodies, intensified by the simple movement. Skylar tightened around him, a sign that she was close. His spine tingled, his legs shook, and his cock burned with the need to come. But he would make sure she went first. He brought a hand between them, brushing a thumb across her clit.
A groan burst from his chest at the feel of her orgasm. She stiffened beneath him and cried out in exultation. He pushed harder, faster, prolonging her ecstasy as he felt his balls tighten. Her legs shook around his hips, and he finally let go. His body exploded with his orgasm, and he thrust into her with each spurt of his cum. He leaned into her shoulder, their ragged breaths rocking their bodies. Or were they shaking from the pleasure each had just experienced?
When he softened within her and his legs felt a little more solid than the jelly they had been before, Jamie stood and walked to the bathroom. He knotted the condom, threw it in the trash, and looked in the mirror.
JamieLewis,yourworldjustgotrockedbyaone-nightstand.
Shaking his head with a little laugh, he ran a hand through his curls and walked back out of the bathroom. Skylar lay on her side facing the bathroom, nibbling her bottom lip. She didn’t seem to know what to do, and somehow Jamie found that cute. Despite her obvious ease in seduction, it became apparent that she didn’t make a habit of picking up one-nighters. Jamie leaned down to grab his boxers from the floor and smiled at her.
“Not getting shy on me now, are you?”
She shook her head. “Not in this lifetime. I don’t do shyness.”
“Mhmm.” He made a sound of doubt but couldn’t help the way his eyes raked over her beautiful form. He pointed out of the room, preventing himself from pouncing on her again. “Want that drink now?”
“Water, please.” She swallowed, her gaze trailing over his body. The lust in them made him regret the offer and want to dive back into bed.
“Sure. I’ll be right back.”
Jamie left the room and grabbed two water bottles from the refrigerator. After doubling back to make sure everything was locked, he returned. He sighed and fought the urge to groan in disappointment. She had fallen asleep, thick lashes still against her cheeks, hands beneath her face as she lay on her side. Her chest rose and fell slowly with each breath expelled from parted lips. Well, there went his plans for round two.
Jamie set the bottles on the nightstand and shut off the bathroom light before crawling into the bed with her. Maybe she’d leave in the morning. Sneak off like most one-nighters did.
Yet as he pulled the quilt over her, he couldn’t help trailing a finger down one thick black wave of hair, hoping he would get one more round before she disappeared.
CHAPTER TWO
The breeze swept over Skylar like tiny feathers floating against her sensitive skin. Dim light filtered in through her bedroom window and she groaned, using her arm to try and block the offensive infiltrator. Somewhere outside a bird made some raucous noise, and she wanted to unleash her wolf on it right at that moment.
Rough palms rubbed down her sides, and Skylar jolted from her half-asleep state. Before she could flip from her vulnerable prone position, one of the hands pressed on her lower back to restrict her movement.
“Calm down there, sweetheart. I have you right where I want you,” a voice, rich with lust, said from above her. It filled her head with memories of the night before. Blond hair, green eyes, cocky grin. Jamie.
Skylar let out a sigh of relief, forcing the tension of terror-filled memories out of her body. Jamie’s lips coaxed her back to the here and now, making her realize there was no breeze, only his gentle mouth as it traveled over her body.
“I’m not going anywhere. Especially if you keep doing that.” She closed her eyes, stretching beneath his hands.
He growled deep in his throat, vibrating pleasure through her body. “That’s been my plan since I woke up with you next to me. I didn’t get the chance to explore the masterpiece before. Like this tattoo.” He trailed his lips down her side, flicking his tongue out to send a hot tingle down to her core. She only had two tattoos, so she didn’t need to ask which he’d noticed—the watercolor phoenix feather that curved beneath her rib cage, and the words that meant so much more than he could ever know. StillIrise.
“Did you know you’re even more beautiful in the daylight?”
“Hmmm,” Skylar replied, shifting against his mouth as he moved lower, anxious for him to get on with the entertainment, to draw her away from her past.
“No, really. The way the light hits your skin here”—he kissed the lower curve of her back—“and here”—her shoulders—“and most definitely here.” He leaned in, capturing her lips in a soft kiss.
His lips bordered on satin when they brushed against her own. He teased his tongue into her mouth, pulling her own into a sensual foreplay. When he pulled away to kneel above her, the truth in his eyes made her breath catch in her throat. Or it may have been the way he suddenly flipped her onto her back. Or was it the way she could see his body in all its glory in the light of day? The way his lightly tanned skin glowed over the ridges of his abs, his cock jutting out from between firm, muscular legs. She licked her lips and looked up at his eyes. Emerald irises glittered in laughter. Not one to be laughed at, she smirked and placed her arms behind her head.
“So, cowboy, you up for round two?”
He laughed, grabbing another condom from the nightstand next to the bed before leaning down. Their lips barely brushed, heat and breath mingling between the two of them. Skylar didn’t want to admit that the simple gesture did all sorts of things to her lady parts.
“Sweetheart, I’m ready for the whole damn fight.”
* * * *
Their morning was cut short when, after round two, Jamie looked at the clock. With a curse, he jumped off the bed and promised breakfast after a ten-minute shower. Skylar laughed and crawled out of bed, stretching thoroughly satisfied limbs.
And satisfied she was. Skylar wasn’t the type of girl to do the walk of shame the next morning. In fact, she wasn’t used to onenight stands at all, but something about Jamie last night had driven her to be daring. Not to mention that she had been looking to be a little rebellious. What really got to her was how well she slept last night. It had been years since Skylar slept so deeply. Usually, it involved having one eye open, only half asleep because fear kept her grounded into consciousness.
Shaking the memories away, she scoured the house for her discarded clothing and put it back on. Her long hair tangled mercilessly around her head, so Skylar reached into her pocket to find her trusty hair tie; she never left the house without one. By the time she’d dressed and thrown her hair up in a ponytail, Jamie had exited the bathroom.
From where she sat on the bed, she enjoyed the view of the devastatingly handsome man wrapped in nothing but a tan towel. She fought the urge to sigh as her eyes followed an errant drop of water making its way down his happy trail.
“Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and I may call in sick from work today.”
Skylar laughed, seeing the seriousness in his eyes. “Not so fast, cowboy. I gotta get going too.”
Jamie slipped on a pair of boxer briefs and a white undershirt, much to her dismay. He strode to his closet in a rush but turned to look at her when he spoke.
“Oh, yeah? You got someone waiting up for you?”
She could hear the wariness layered beneath the joke. At the moment, he was probably wondering if she was betraying a husband or boyfriend. It would have done him good to know that before screwing her brains out.
“Yep,” Skylar couldn’t help replying, popping the p and turning her face away to hide her smile. The pregnant silence that followed was worth it. She could practically hear the possibilities rolling around in his head of who could be waiting for her. Jamie cleared his throat.
“And who would that be?”
She let loose the laugh bubbling to the surface. “My sister…” Her voice trailed off when she turned to face him again and saw the outfit he’d put on. A very familiar pair of khaki pants and top, black shoes—and the gold star of a sheriff.
A terrible feeling of shock and simultaneous fear flooded through Skylar. Her stomach rose to her throat at the same time her blood tingled in her veins. She felt as if puking might be the only relief from the swirling sensation in her head. A sheriff. She’d slept with a fucking cop.
“Skylar? What’s wrong?” Jamie exited the closet completely, fingers still busy buttoning up his uniform.
Skylar lifted her eyes to his, a million thoughts shooting through her head. All sorts of self-accusations of how stupid she was for making such a careless mistake. Jamie watched her with confusion and worse, curiosity, a distinct furrow between his brows marring his flawless face.
Be cool, Skylar . Don’t make him suspicious. She cleared her throat, hoping it would relieve the bile still sitting uncomfortably somewhere between her chest and throat.
“Sorry, I was just thinking. It’s my sister. I really should get back to her.”
Jamie glanced behind Skylar, and he grimaced. “Well, I was going to make breakfast, but seeing as how I’m running late—”
“It’s fine!” Skylar yelled but checked herself when she saw the curious expression return to Jamie’s face. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have to feed my sister anyway.”
Skylar’s fingers bit into her palms. She shifted on the bed, crossing and uncrossing her legs. He was a cop. She was a horrible liar. Fuck. He tilted his head to the side, and for a second she thought he would question her again, but he nodded and walked past her. He bent down to retrieve his discarded pants, causing the khaki material to stretch across the ass she had gripped the night before. God, but a man in uniform was still hot—even if he only spelled trouble for her. After pocketing his wallet and cell phone, he jangled his keys.
“I’ll take you back to the bar. Your car is there, right?”
Still too nervous to speak and worried it would show in her words, Skylar nodded and followed him out of the bedroom.
They sat in his truck with Jamie’s citrus scent surrounding her, within her, suffocating her. She rolled down the window and tried to focus her senses on the pine trees and truck exhaust. Her wolf felt her anxiety and paced within, defensive, terrified. It only knew one thing that could make her feel this way and was tired of being pushed down. Skylar was grateful for the silence even though she could feel every time Jamie glanced her way. She wasn’t sure she could handle any more questions.
It didn’t take long to get back to the bar. By the time Skylar caught a glimpse of the building, she was a nervous wreck. She just hoped it didn’t show. The building seemed so different from when they had been there last night. No longer hidden by the beautifying darkness and glinting lights, Silver Spur Bar looked just like any of the other surrounding buildings: dilapidated wood storefront, dark windows, and Skylar’s old blue Bronco in an otherwise abandoned parking lot.
“You drive that?” Jamie asked, pointing to the older vehicle in amazement.
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing. Just not the car I imagined you driving.”
“And what would that be?” The insult didn’t sting like it used to. She’d heard it all before, but she was grateful for the distraction.
“I don’t know. A Camry or something?”
Skylar scoffed and hopped out of his truck, her sandals smacking against the asphalt.
“What?” he asked when she didn’t say anything.
Skylar leaned against the door and stared up at him. His blond hair fell in small curls around his face, disheveled and haphazard. He was so freaking gorgeous, but the uniform sent her on a hiatus. And only made her want him more for it.
“That was kinda sexist, don’t you think?”
“Why? Guys drive Camrys all the time.”
“It’s the insinuation that women can’t drive a beautiful, classic, manual-transmission beauty like my girl Molly.”
Jamie’s laugh came out like a shout, and he banged his hand against his steering wheel. “You named your car? What kind of name is Molly?”
“You know, like Molly Weasley? I’m a big Harry Potter fan.”
Jamie stared at Skylar, and she felt the embarrassment flood her face. The laugh seemed frozen on his face, crinkling his cheeks in the most adorable way. When he didn’t say anything, Skylar rolled her eyes.
“Never mind, then. I gotta get going.”
She shut the truck door and headed back to her dear Molly, rubbing the hood to soothe the machine’s hurt feelings.
“Hey! Will I see you around?” Jamie shouted through his now open window. Skylar was a little jealous at the silent way it opened. Old Molly’s windows screeched like a banshee on the way down.
Would he see her around? God, saying no seemed stupid. She’d hopefully be living there in Big Bear anyway, so chances were he would. But would she go out of her way to make it happen? Not likely.
After opening her door and sitting on the leather seat, she winked at him. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
She slammed the door shut on his amused expression, turned over Molly’s engine, and drove out of the parking lot. And she fought really hard not to glance back.
Ten minutes later, Skylar walked into the cheap motel room she was supposed to share with her sister the night before. The TV blared in the tiny space and muffled the slam of the heavy door behind her. Cartoon characters danced on the screen, their colors a little brighter than usual and a fuzzy line bouncing up and down the center. Skylar let out a sigh and dropped her purse on the small table, then finally looked at where her sister lay.
Emery sat propped by pillows on the old red comforter of the motel bed, impossibly long legs stretched in front of her. She turned dark-brown eyes to Skylar and grinned, small dimples forming on her freckled cheeks.
“And where were you all night?”
“I went out to have a drink,” Skylar said, avoiding her seventeenyear-old sister’s inquisitive gaze. Instead, she turned toward her suitcase and pulled out a new outfit for the day.
“Well, a drink wouldn’t keep you out allnight, Sky.”
“Em, if you know what I was doing, why even ask?”
Emery shot out an exasperated laugh. “At least you got to go out and do something. I’ve been watching this shitty TV this whole time.”
Guilt swept over Skylar. Her spine straightened, and she forced herself to look at her sister. She clutched the clean clothes to her chest. “I’m sorry, Em. We’ll go out and do something soon. I promise.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Emery waved her hand in dismissal and focused her gaze back on the TV. “Go take your shower, and let’s get this over with.”
Skylar hesitated, knowing her sister was hiding the anger and jealousy brewing beneath her delicate surface. But she also knew it was better to give her some time before discussing anything. So she hopped in the shower to clean off yesterday’s grime and last night’s citrus essence that wouldn’t leave her nostrils. A scent she wasn’t even sure she wanted gone.
Freshly showered and dressed in clothes that didn’t reek of cigarettes and sweat, she returned to the main area. Emery stood at the edge of the bed, studying multiple outfits. Skylar brushed the tangles from her hair as she watched a multitude of emotions pass over Emery’s face. For a girl who never left their small town, moving across the country and meeting a new pack was terrifying to Emery. Of course, Skylar was scared as well, but it beat the alternative.
Emery let out a groan of frustration and threw a shirt back on the bed, pushing one hand into her mess of long copper hair. Skylar walked up to her and pulled her into a hug, which Emery resisted with a stiff body. It was hard. Sometimes Skylar had to remind herself Emery was only seventeen. Making such a crazy move away from all of her friends would be difficult for Emery, even though she knew their life had been anything but happy there.
“Emery, I’m sorry, hon. You know we would have stayed if we could.”
After a moment, Emery relented. Her slender body relaxed into Skylar’s embrace, and she wrapped her arms around Skylar’s waist. She ducked her head down into Skylar’s chest.
“I know, Sky. I just wish things could have been different.”
“Me too. But you know what?” Skylar leaned back, forcing Emery to look her in the eyes. “I think things are going to be better here. You’ll see.”
Emery stared long enough for Skylar to notice the hope that flickered in her gaze, and then she turned away to go back to her outfit picking. “I hope so. I really do. Now can you come over here and help me pick something to wear?”
I hope so too, Skylar thought before glancing at the clothes on the bed.
CHAPTER THREE
With Molly’s engine echoing through their wooded surroundings, Skylar and Emery drove the winding path toward what they hoped would be their new home. Of course, it would all be up to the members of the pack. They had passed a sign stating that Wolf Creek was just ahead, and Skylar could just make out the beginning of a small town. A cluster of tiny stores lined the street among the forest of trees. Small groups of people walked up and down the sidewalks, some with a hurried pace and others taking their time with a careless stroll.
Skylar pulled the vehicle into a parking spot but left the engine on. Through the windshield she gazed at the beautiful modern logo painted on the window. MANE DESIGNS stood out in neon pink, an abrupt contrast to the business’s rustic exterior. On the other side of the front window people sat in lifted chairs while others waited for their turn. Skylar turned to Emery.
“Stay here for a second. I’m going to see if they know where we should go.”
Emery nodded and turned the knob for the radio, looking for a station that didn’t only play static.
Skylar exited the vehicle and went inside the beauty shop. A bell rang over her head, announcing her entry to everyone within.
“Welcome! We’ll be with you in a minute!” a voice rang out from one of the stylists.
Underneath the horrendous scent of chemicals and cosmetics, the smell of shifter flooded Skylar’s senses, and she tried to filter through to find the source. The person in her pack who’d told her where to go had explained that all the shop owners in Wolf Creek were shifters. Skylar moved her eyes over the people in the chairs, dismissing them. The curvy hairstylist who had yelled in welcome seemed oblivious, so she was eliminated as a possibility. The second hairstylist, however, caught Skylar’s eye. The woman stared in return, her hands pausing over her client’s head. She nodded at Skylar in acknowledgment and finished blow-drying the person’s hair. Skylar continued standing until the woman made her way over.
“Hi, what can we do for you?” the woman asked and grasped Skylar’s hand in a handshake.
“I need to ask you a question. I’m looking for Killian Stone’s house; do you know how I can get there?”
Several glances shot toward Skylar from the women waiting. Skylar took a step back at the intensity of interest in their eyes.
The stylist cleared her throat, bringing Skylar’s focus back on her. “What do you need to see Killian for?”
Skylar shifted on her feet, glancing over at the women and uncomfortable with the nervousness that crept up on her. How did you say, “Oh, my shifter friend told me to come here for safety” in front of a bunch of humans? “I was told by a friend he could help me with something.”
The woman stared, her green gaze studying Skylar much the same way Jamie had that morning. She looked so familiar, like Skylar should know who she was but had it on the tip of her tongue. Instead of asking more questions, the woman nodded. Skylar sagged in relief.
“All right. There’s only one road in Wolf Creek. If you keep taking that road, you’ll get to Killian’s house. His is the last driveway. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Of course.” The woman paused, but then gave Skylar a warm smile. “What’s your name?”
“Skylar.”
“Well, Skylar, I’m Jessica. I hope Killian can help you with whatever it is you need.”
Skylar fought the urge to sigh and nodded instead. “Me too.”
She turned and exited the shop, hopping back into the truck. Emery had found some station playing country music and curled into her seat, her chin resting on her knees. Her long locks fell around her like a curtain as she stared out her window.
“Did you figure out how to get there?”
“Yep, we’re almost there.”
“Thank God. I’m so tired of being in a car.”
Skylar rolled her eyes as she backed out of the spot and turned onto the road they had traveled on before. It didn’t take long to find the driveway Jessica had told her about. It curved into the privacy of trees, blocking peeping eyes. The truck bounced over a pothole, sending the radio into a fit. It turned on and off with each movement of the vehicle, before finally settling on complete silence.
“Well, shit!” Emery cursed, banging a hand on the dashboard in an attempt to bring the music back.
“Emery, watch your mouth,” Skylar scolded, but they both knew it was pointless. Skylar wasn’t Emery’s mother, no matter how many times she felt as if she were. And if having a potty mouth was Emery’s only fault, it was better than most girls her age.
Emery rolled her eyes and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Do you think they’re going to be okay with us staying?” she whispered, the fear she tried to keep concealed peeking out from her dark eyes.
Skylar wanted to lie. She desperately wanted to give even the smallest amount of solace to her sister since they’d been through so much. But she also knew they both had been through enough, and she wasn’t going to start their new life off by lying. It would only make it worse if the pack kicked them out of their territory. So instead, Skylar shook her head.
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“What’s that?” I pointed to the evidence he had forgotten he was carrying.
“Well, hardly any,” he corrected; “just a little now and then to oblige a friend, when I ain’t busy.”
Ruth had warned me of this. The independent son of the Puritan Fathers on Cape Cod will only work as a favor, and out of kindness charges you more than if he were drawing union wages.
“What do you do when you are busy?”
“Oh,—boats.”
“Wouldn’t you have time in the fall?”
“In the fall I won’t be here,” he answered, with a relieved sigh.
Mr. Turtle gave a guffaw, but when I looked at him sharply he was methodically cutting a piece of cheese. “Will you have a sample?” he asked me, holding a sliver out to me on the end of a knife.
I slammed the screen-door.
As soon as I arrived in the hospitable back-yard of Mrs. Dove, I asked her what was wrong with them, or with me, that they should rebuff me so. Stout and red-faced with exertion, she was laboriously washing on a bench under the trees and kept on splashing the suds. Being the only laundry in town, she could not waste time on explanations. Mrs. Dove contracted to do the summer people’s clothing by the dozen, and, counting almost everything that was given her as not rightfully within that dozen, supplied herself with sufficient funds to hibernate for the winter. During the dull season she prepared for the next year’s trade by making rag-rugs and mats with button-eyed cats, the patterns for which had traditionally been brought back from Newfoundland by the sailors. After she had listened to my story and hung up the stockings, she took the clothespins out of her mouth long enough to answer
“You’ll have a hard time all right, getting any one to go near the place. They’re all against it.”
“But why?”
“Well, it has a bad name around here.”
That was what the judge had said. That was the reason he was willing to sell it cheap.
“Do you mean it is haunted?”
Mrs. Dove held a child’s rompers up to the sunlight, soaped a spot on the seat, and rubbed hard again.
“Well, not ghosts, precisely, but there’s always been strange goingson there, things a person could not understand and that never has been explained. All the men is down on it, because the New Captain didn’t hire none of them to work on the wing he built.”
“But that was years ago!”
“Fifty, maybe. The house was put up in the first place by ships’ carpenters from Boston, and there’s some is still jealous of that. Still, when the New Captain added to it, seems as if he might have hired folks around here. Instead of that he was so stingy that he built it all himself, him and Mattie. He had her working around there just like a man. Pretty near killed her carrying lumber. I’d ’a’ seen myself hammerin’ and climbing up and down ladders for any of them Haweses!”
“Did she really do that?”
“She did anything he said. Anything at all! From the time that he used to chase her barefooted in and out of the drying-frames on the shore lot where the cod was spread, she just worshiped him. And what good did it do her? Mis’ Hawes was so set against her that she made her life a torment, trying to keep her busy and away from him.”
“Why wouldn’t she let him marry her?”
“How did you know about that? Oh, you seen Caleb Snow! People that talk all the time has to say something. I bet the judge didn’t mention it!”
“He said that Mattie was picked up out of the sea.”
“Oh, as for that!”
“And that Mrs. Hawes came from Maine.”
“Did he? Well, she did, then. And she always thought there was nothing good enough for her in Star Harbor There was hardly a family on Cape Cod that she would associate with. Her father was one of them old sea-captains, pirates, I call them, who took slaves up there in his own vessels, and she just naturally had it in her to make Mattie into a slave of her own. She would no more have let her son marry that orphan girl than if she was a nigger. I was a child then myself, and I used to hear her hollerin’ at Mattie. She was bedridden the last six years, and she used to lie by the window, downstairs in the front room, and call out to people passing in the street. Stone deaf, Mis’ Hawes was, and so as she could hear the sound of her own voice she used to shout loud enough to call the hands in off the ships in the harbor. Yes, ma’am, her lightest whisper could be heard all over the bay.”
“Did she live longer than her husband?”
“Oh, years and years! He went down with the White Wren—they got his body off the point. It was after that she had the stroke and was so mean to Mattie and the New Captain. They was young people then, and just the age. She wouldn’t let him have a penny of the Old Captain’s fortune. I suppose it was because she wouldn’t give him any cash to do it with that he had to build the new wing himself. She was dead set against it. But it served her right. Mattie got so wore out with it that she had to go to a hospital in Boston and get laid up for a while. Some say she fell off the roof, but I used to be right around there watchin’ them half the time and I never see her fall off any roof. And Mis’ Hawes, she had a miserable time of it while Mattie was gone. Once you get depending on any one, it’s them that is the masters.
“I don’t believe Mattie ever would ’a’ come back after that, she was so long away, only one day the New Captain hitched up his horse and went and fetched her His mother simply couldn’t do without her another minute. It was winter and there was no ships plying. The harbor was ice from here way over to the lighthouse-point; I remember it. And we didn’t have trains clear down the cape in those
times. So what did the New Captain do but drive all the way down to Boston and back in his square box-buggy. He was gone days and days. I saw them coming home that night, the horse’s coat all roughed up and sweaty and his breath steaming into the cold, like smoke, the side-curtains drawn tight shut and the lamps lit. I was bringing back our cow, and I drew to one side of the road to let them pass, and I could hear her whimpering-like inside. He must have thought a powerful sight of Mattie to have made that journey for her.”
“Were they happy after that?”
“Not that anybody knows of. There was old Mis’ Hawes so set against his marrying her that she would fly into a passion if she saw you was even so much as thinking of such a thing; and yet, what could she do about it? Or what did she even know about it, shut up in one room? Yes, ma’am, there’s been strange goings-on in that house, and there is still. That’s why the men they won’t go near it. When the New Captain wanted the roof shingled or the pipes mended from time to time, he had to do it himself.”
“Well, I’m not going to paint the house myself,” I said. “After I get in and have it all opened up, they will feel differently about it.” I held up my chin defiantly.
“That is, if you ever get in,” rejoined Mrs. Dove.
I walked on down the back street with my clean white skirts, that she had washed, over my arm, and thought things over.
To every house, as to every human being, is granted two sorts of life, physical and spiritual. These wear out. To renew the physical life, all that is needed is a few shingles and a can of white lead and a thorough overhauling of the drains. The regeneration of the spiritual is more complex, requiring a change of occupant. The deterioration of a family within the walls of a house leaves an aroma of decay that only the complete relinquishment of the last surviving occupant can dissipate. Even then, the new tenant, in order to be exempt from the influence of past psychological experiences, must be unaware of them. I was learning too much about the House of the Five Pines. I determined that I would inquire no further, but brush these
revelations from my mind and make a clean beginning. I would go back to New York now, remembering the house only in its external aspect, impressing that alone upon my husband and forestalling his reaction to the side of the situation that lent itself to fiction, which was his profession, by not telling him all of these legends that I had recently unearthed. Jasper was more sensitive to such suggestions than myself, and I felt that if he knew what I did we should have no peace. To protect myself from exhaustive argument and speculation, it would be wiser to repeat nothing.
The road where I was walking led across the rear of the premises of the House of the Five Pines, which extended a block, from what was always called the “Front Street” to the “Back Street.” From here one had a view of the garden and the four-foot brick walls that held up the precious earth hauled from such a distance. The century’s growth of the five pine-trees had burst open the wall along one side, and their roots, extending into the next yard, had been ruthlessly chopped off. I hoped that these new neighbors would not extend their animosity to me. The land sloped gradually down from the house until it rose again in a wooded hill on the further side of Back Street. This incline had necessitated the placing of piles, topped with inverted tin pans, as they are in country corn-bins, to hold up the rear of the captain’s wing. The space thus formed beneath the house, called the “under,” was filled with the rubbish of years. There were no doors at the back of the house, nor did this one-story addition have any entrance. There was a big chimney in the center of the end-wall and windows on either side No barns or outbuildings fringed the road. The needs of seafaring folk demanded that they keep their properties in sheds upon their wharves.
At first there was no sign of Mattie, but as I lingered in Back Street, lost in speculation, a little old woman came around the side of the mysterious house. She was dragging two heavy oars behind her which she propped against a tree, and, setting down a wicker fishbasket beside them, lifted out a live green lobster.
She wore a yellow oilskin hat, with the brim bent down around her withered face, and a dirty sailor’s middy over a bedraggled skirt. Holding her freshly-caught lobster in a way that would have been
precarious to most people, she talked to it like a pet, and as I continued to watch her, fascinated, she carried it tenderly away. I wondered if she would drop it into boiling water, which was its natural destiny, or take it into the kitchen and feed it a saucer of milk. She did not appear again, but realizing that from behind some shutter she might be observing me, I became self-conscious and moved on.
Judge Bell was leaning against the door of the Winkle-Man’s loft and greeted me like an old friend as I passed. I knew that he had strolled up there this morning to find out what had transpired after I left him the day before.
“Are you going to take the house?” he asked.
“I hope so. I’m going back home this afternoon and tell my husband about it.”
“Oh, ye’ve got a husband, have ye?” said Caleb, appearing with his winkle-fork in his hand.
“What would I want that big house for if I didn’t have any husband?”
“Give it up! What do you want it for anyway? The judge and me have give up wondering what summer people wants anything for, ain’t we, judge?”
Judge Bell would not answer; he was afraid Caleb was going to spoil the sale.
“They always pick out the worst ramshackle down-at-the-heels places that they can get for nothin’, and talks about the ‘possibilities’ of ’em, like a revivalist prayin’ over a sinner, until you would think the blessed old rat-trap was something!”
“The House of the Five Pines isn’t a rat-trap,” said the judge, touchily.
“No, it ain’t,” grinned Caleb, shouldering his long fork and picking up his bait-bucket. “It’s a man-trap!”
He slouched off down the bank.
“Don’t you worry,” I reassured the judge, who was looking sour. “I’ll take the house if I possibly can. You put your mind on getting Mattie
moved out of it, and I’ll write you.”
I told Ruth about my interviews when I reached the cottage. “You’ve found out more about that house in the last twenty-four hours,” she replied in her leisurely way, “than I’ve ever heard in the five years I’ve lived here. I only pray you will take it now. The town-people won’t like it if you don’t; you’ve got their hopes aroused.”
“I have my own aroused,” I replied. “I have more hope now for the future than I have had for the last six months.”
Ruth saw me off cheerfully on the afternoon train, but I knew that in her kind heart were forebodings as to what might happen in my life before she could see me again. Her whole family would migrate soon now, and our winters would be spent in cities too far apart for us to help each other. If she could have known how much I was going to need her, she would never have left Star Harbor.
CHAPTER VI LOBSTER-POTS
GETTING up and out of the apartment before my husband was awake, I bought all the morning papers at the nearest kiosk and carried them back to my breakfast-table. At least I would know first, for my wakefulness, what the edict of the critics was. I hated to read what I knew in my heart to be their immature and sometimes even silly opinions, but such is the power of the press over the theaters that I could not wait for my coffee to boil before I unfolded the first sheet. These sophisticated young writers, many of whom I knew and whose opinions I respected less on that account, wielded the power of life or death over their subjects, the playwrights, who struggled in the arena of life for their approval and were never safe from their august “thumbs down.” Sometimes I thought the older men, who should have known better, were the most irresponsible. Bored out of all possibility of forming any constructive opinion of a first night, they waited only to see that every actor came on as advertised, and then scuttled back to their typewriters to pound off something, anything that would leave them free for half an hour’s game in the back of the newspaper office before going home. What had they done to us and to our play, to the cross-section of life which we had labored over all summer?
They were better than I had expected—probably because it was in September and the dramatic critics were not yet jaded. Possibly, fresh from the mountains, with the sunburn not yet worn off, they had actually been to see the play and had had a good time meeting one another in the lobby and comparing mileage. At any rate, their remarks were universally good-natured, if not profound, and their intentions beyond cavil. They had one criticism in common—they did not like our ingénue, and I could not blame them any for that.
Will Turnball, on the “Gazette,” said that Myrtle Manners had done all she could to ruin it, but fortunately the play did not depend upon her for its success. He was not aware that it was the playwright who was himself dependent upon her, who put her interests above any one else’s in the cast. I remembered that Turnball knew the girl, and wondered if he had said that deliberately and perhaps on my account. One never knows where an obscure sense of chivalry is going to crop out in a modern knight. We were old friends. He had read “The Shoals of Yesterday” beforehand, one happy day in the middle of last summer, when we were all down at ’Sconset together over a Sunday. And, at the time, he had objected to Myrtle Manners taking that part. He had said she was a trouble-maker, but Jasper, having only recently secured his contract with Burton, who was going to produce the play, did not feel like stepping in and dictating the cast. I had stupidly sustained him. And now Turnball, knowing that what he said could not fail to make Myrtle angry, had nevertheless gone out of his way to say it. I smiled at the reaction I knew would follow, and picked up the next paper.
I was surprised to find that the man on the “Tribune” agreed with him. I did not know this critic at all. And the “Globe” said:
“‘The Shoals of Yesterday,’ the new play by Jasper Curdy, wellknown short-story writer, opened last night at the Lyric with great success.... When so many girls are out of work this fall, why hire Myrtle Manners?”
I finished my breakfast with the feeling that I had been revenged. Jasper had not chosen her, I came to his defense. The manager picked her out, Burton himself, for no better reason than that her father played baseball with him on the high-school team back in Plainfield, New Jersey, and she had come to him with a letter and a sob-story and a pair of blue eyes. She was ambitious, she had told him, and she wanted to work hard. Well, she understood herself; she was all of ambitious, but who was to do the hard work was more doubtful. She was never up at the hour of the day when most of the hard work is done. To do Jasper justice, he had not seen the girl until the first rehearsal, although she had hardly been out of his sight
since. Discontented with the part as it was originally written, Myrtle had insisted on changes in it until the whole fabric of the play was endangered. The part of ingénue was not originally important, but her insistence, and Jasper’s willingness to please her, had altered it until it threatened the lead. Therefore it had come about that Gaya Jones, who was creating the difficult part of a society crook, was herself becoming restless. There was no need of antagonizing Gaya. She had started out at the beginning of the rehearsals with all the good-will in the world, and worked up her character with her usual dependable artistry If she had her lines cut and Myrtle Manners had hers made increasingly important, there was going to be grave trouble. I had looked for Gaya in vain in the crowd who were going out for supper last night. Probably, like myself, she had gone home alone. I wished her better luck in her ice-box than I had found in mine.
Now that the play had been launched I wondered if these two women, upon whose acting it depended, would become reconciled to each other.
The telephone interrupted my foreboding with a new fear
“O Mrs. Curdy? Myrtle talking. Have you seen the papers? Is Jasper up? Isn’t he? Why, he went home awfully early He always does, doesn’t he? Broke up the party; so sorry you couldn’t go along! I suppose you’ve read what the papers say about me? I got up to find out; might as well go back to bed again! Some of them were grand, but the ‘Tribune’—Wait till Jasper reads what that awful man said in the ‘Tribune.’ And the ‘Gazette’! I don’t believe they sent any one over at all! That must have been written at the desk by the officeboy! The ‘Globe’ was grouchy, too, but I know why that was; that Jones who writes their stuff is married, you know, and he’s sore at me. Last night, when we were all having supper, it was this way—”
I put my hand over the receiver so that I would not have to listen to her story about the supper I knew perfectly well that dramatic critics were not loitering around restaurants after plays; they had to get their reviews written before twelve o’clock.
“No, Jasper isn’t up yet,” I replied, taking my hand away just in time to hear her insistent question. “All right.”
But the sunshine had been taken out of the room for me, as if a blind had been drawn. Was this what we had been working for—this? Failure might have drawn us together, might have made us need each other more—or did I not mean that it would have made my husband need me just a little? But now he was forever a part of a production—as long as “The Shoals of Yesterday” should live, its slave and its nurse. Nor did I want it to die precisely, nor quarrel with my bread and butter, but, like many another, wanted success without the price of success, and fame without the penalty. If, after the production, Jasper had to spend all of his time mollifying this girl, if he had to get right up out of bed to answer her demands, what had he gained? I was so tired of the whole circle of my life! Tired of plays and of writers, of actors and of stages, of newspapers and of telephones. The list ran on in my mind like a stanza of Walt Whitman. I could think of just as many nouns as he could, and of all of them I was tired. The thought of leaving New York altogether was to my mind like a fresh breeze on a sultry noon. There was nothing more to detain Jasper. Why not go?
I looked about the room where I was sitting with eyes suddenly grown cold to it. There was a hinge loose on the gate-legged table that had once been our pride, so that a wing would go down if one kicked it. The leather cushion on the big davenport in the windows was worn white. The curtains were half-dirty and stuck to the screen. The silver needed cleaning. The painted chairs, which furnished that intimate “arty” touch, were like a woman who has slept in her rouge without washing her face and needed touching up. The living-room was too near. I wanted rooms where to leave one was not to look back into it continually, rooms from which there was some escape, that did not merge into one another. Particularly desirable to me at that moment was a separate kitchen, incorrigibly isolated. I felt that I would not care if it were in the basement or in another building, if only I did not have to see the grapefruit rinds on the kitchen sink while I was eating my egg.
That house on the cape! Two thousand dollars! The price of a car, and Jasper had said he was going to get a car—to take Myrtle out in, probably. I decided right then that if he bought a car, instead of a house, I would never ride in it. (But I knew that I lied, even as I did so.) It seemed to me that our life here was ended. More real was the House of the Five Pines, the sand-dunes and the sea, the little road and the vessels in the harbor. They were enduring; they had been there before us and would indifferently outlast our brief sojourn, if we lived with them the rest of our lives. They were the sum of the hopes of simple men and the fabric of their dreams. I could hear the voices of the children who would run around in that great yard, if it were ever mine, and smell the hollyhocks that again would bloom in orderly rows against the freshly painted house.
I took the mail in from the janitor—a letter from Star Harbor.
Dear Madam:
Mattie “Charles T. Smith” was drowned yesterday while taking up her lobster-pots. I know that you will feel sorry for her demise, but Providence has now made clear the way for you to have the house you wanted. Please advise, as I would like to close the deal.
Yours truly, J B .
I sat quite still, with the letter trembling in my hand. Mattie had gone back to the sea, back to that ancient mother of hers out of whose arms she had been taken.
I knew the place where the lobster-pots were put out. A long row from Mattie’s wharf, over in one shallow pool of the bay behind the stone breakwater, where children played on the flats at low tide and the horseshoe-crabs held carnival. No cottages were near this spot, no fishermen’s houses stood up on the bank, for deep-pooled marshes stretched behind it and to one side and beyond the breakwater was nothing but sand and mosquitoes. The breakwater itself was too lonely a walk for any one but lovers, who have the nocturnal habits of the cat, but who do not patrol distant beaches to
see the sunrise. And no other person would ever have been in shouting distance of the place where Mattie must have been drowned. I could see it all as it must have been. An early morning; fiery clouds veiling the rising sun, turning the whole bay to heliotrope and silver; fishing-vessels at anchor, their crews still asleep; seagulls flapping up lazily to roost again on pile tops, each one a gargoyle in the morning mist; and a little old woman rowing a heavy boat to her traps, standing to tug at the slippery line. An extra pull that drew her over the edge; a stagger to recover her balance as she floundered; a cry that no one heard on those desolate flats; a boat left rocking, half-full of water; and an old withered body, found when the tide went out, caught fast in the lobster-pots.
Mattie “Charles T. Smith”! Cast upon the mercy of these hard fisherfolk and in the end snatched back by the sea, which always claims its own! At least, and I was glad for it, she had been spared the ignominy of being turned out of her home by me or any of my kind. The manner of her going was like the way of her living—an accident of fate, a silence, and a mystery.
Jasper startled me, coming into the room in his bath-robe, asking for coffee. “Oh, let’s see the papers.”
I had forgotten the papers. I pushed them all toward him and went out to make fresh toast.
The letter lay there. I did not know whether to show it to him or not. For the first time in our married life I was afraid. I wanted so passionately to have him go away with me, to have a place in which to be together alone, a home, and yet at the same time I knew that he would have to choose it for himself or the project would be futile. I hated to be refused, and I would not force a decision. Had he risen on this morning of his great success thinking only of that little actress and what it would mean to her, or had he, after all, created this thing for our own future—for me?
“You’re burning it!” called Jasper.
I hurried in with the toast.
“What are you crying for?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re up too early. Nerves. You ought to take more rest.”
I watched him miserably while he ate and looked through all the newspapers.
“That’s fine,” he said. “That settles that! The old boys certainly were nice to me!—Better than I deserve! Looks as if we were going to have money in the bank!”
Then he picked up the letter.
“Read it,” I whispered. But I could not bear to see him, and I got up and would have run away. He caught me in the doorway and, his arms around me, kissed away my fears.
“I’m glad the old woman’s drowned!” he cried.
“Oh no, don’t say that!”
“Aren’t you?”
“But don’t put it that way!”
“What way? What’s the difference what way we put it, so long as she’s out of it and we can get the house!”
“Shall we get it?”
“Do you want it?”
I broke down then and wept upon his shoulder.
“Don’t cry,” he kept saying, “don’t cry All you need is sleep. We’ll go up there and get rested. That’s the best news this morning. Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“I didn’t know whether you’d be interested.”
Jasper laughed, and, through my tears, I laughed, too.
“Don’t get any funny ideas in your head,” he said. “You know very well that—”
It was too hard to say. I spared him.
“What I need is not sleep, Jasper,” I whispered; “it’s just—you.”
