Nighttime Sweethearts Read online

  The drawing of the chapel said so clearly what he was inside. That was what he wanted to destroy: the evidence that inside him was a great well of hope and compassion and heart, that inside him was a place that longed for a world made brighter by love.

  He snorted. Love. The greatest of truths or the greatest of illusions?

  He went to the bathroom, needing busy tasks. A shave. A shower. He regarded himself in the mirror, looked himself full in the face, and found a truth there that was nearly as shattering as the damage he saw.

  Rick Barnett suddenly saw it wasn't about his face at all. Not about his blindness, or his scars, or his crushed larynx.

  Those things had become a convenient excuse to hide from the very thing that life was all about. He was hiding from a power that enticed him even as he mistrusted it heartily.

  Love. It always started with great promise. But where did it go? And how did it go there?

  That couple screaming at each other at the party had reopened a wound that went far deeper than the scars on his face.

  His parents had been so much like that. They seemed to possess an abiding fury at one another that created a wall neither of them could break through or climb over or go around, not even for his sake. The anger had not even subsided with the death of their marriage. In fact, the bitterness had deepened between them, and he had always been the pawn in the middle.

  Before they'd split, his memories of childhood were of waking up in the night to the sounds of their heated battles. His days had been booze-scented and filled with his mother's tears and his father's silences.

  His memories were of a child praying hard for love to win and of a child's fervent and desperate prayers not being answered.

  But was there a time limit on prayers? Was there just the smallest possibility that his prayer for love was being answered now?

  With Cynthia?

  "No," he said out loud, and could feel his fear cloaking itself in anger.

  He had seen pictures of his mother and father's wedding. They had been beautiful. They had looked at each other with unbridled delight. In every picture they were linked by a touch—his father's hand on the small of her back, his mother's hand resting on his shoulder, grazing his cheek. During the first years the snapshots still contained smiles, delight, touches, a certain playfulness. His father piggybacking his mother around the backyard, her making an outrageous face at the camera. And then something had changed.

  He'd always wondered if that something had been him.

  Or maybe it was just the way of the world. There was plenty of evidence that the starry-look-and-kisses stage of a relationship was fleeting, and that misery was forever.

  There was proof all around him that the dreams died and left something terrible in their place. It wasn't just his mother and father. It wasn't just that couple tonight. No, it was everywhere. Diana and Charles. J.Lo and Ben. Tom and Nicole.

  It didn't last. It couldn't last.

  He wished the ferry left right now, right this minute. He showered and shaved but then paced restlessly, until his eyes fell upon the chunk of wood, and the bear called to him.

  One last carving, then. One last gift for Cynthia.

  Only this one would be real. Not doves and dolphins and water nymphs rising from the water.

  No, this one would show life not as he wanted it to be, but life as he knew it to be.

  The bear took shape under his knife. It was huge and restless. He carved the danger of this animal into every line and sinew and muscle. The bear was like that capricious thing called love. It could be playful, curious, content, connected, loyal, protective. But that was not the side of the bear Rick wanted to capture or portray. No, he wanted to show the side of the bear that could surface with an amazing lack of warning—savage, formidable, frightening, furious. He wanted to show the side of the bear that could leave an unbelievable swath of destruction in its wake, without half trying.

  He would leave it for her, for Cynthia, this latest carving, and when she found it she would understand.

  Perhaps she would even be glad that he would not make the rendezvous she had set up for noon.

  Was he sorry he was causing her pain? Yes.

  But he told himself that he was being gallant in his own way, that a little bit of pain now was preferable to a great deal of pain later.

  Rick did not know if Cynthia could love him or not. He did not know, given his family history, if he could love her in the way she deserved to be loved.

  He was aware, now, that his outer scars paled in comparison to his inner ones.

  It was best to leave the whole thing a fantasy.

  The next morning, Cynthia's initial reaction of delight at finding the carving on her patio table died quickly.

  She frowned as she studied the brilliant lines and curves. The bear could have breathed it was so real. It was technically as wonderful as the other pieces, but gone was the lightness of spirit.

  The bear carving contained a restless energy. It showed perfectly the danger of this animal, the dark side of its power.

  She sank down on one of the chairs, holding the wood. She stroked it tentatively. Could love tame such a power?

  Cynthia remembered when Merry had first told her the story of the bear who married a woman. She had challenged Cynthia to look at it through her own experience, to see how the story had meaning for her.

  Suddenly she was very aware that that exercise could never be accomplished by focusing on the bear, his strengths and his weaknesses.

  Rather she would have to look at her own.

  The strongest element in the story, stronger even than the love between the bear and the woman, had been the bond between the mother and the daughter.

  Cynthia could not help but see the parallel with her own life.

  Why had the mother in the legend had so much control over her daughter? Was it cultural? Did she have her daughter's best interests at heart, or her own? Did the bear turn to stone because of the mother's judgments? Or because the daughter was so linked to her mother that the daughter's judgments could only mirror those that had been modeled for her?

  Did judgment poison the power of love? Wasn't that what had poisoned her own parents' relationship? Her mother's inability to love and accept unconditionally? Her inability to leash her judgments of her husband, to see his good instead of his bad, to focus on his strengths instead of his weaknesses?

  Why didn't the daughter in the tale fight for her husband, even though she had never seen his face? She had felt his hands. She had accepted him in her bed! Why had she let him go? Why hadn't she followed him into the sea?

  Suddenly, from the questions came the answer Cynthia sought. She knew what she had to do. Not necessarily for Rick, but for herself.

  She got up and knocked on her mother's door.

  Her mother, not a morning person, made her knock several times before she opened it, a haughty, unforgiving look on her face.

  "We need to talk," Cynthia said, surprised by the gentleness in her own voice.

  "Now?" her mother said. "I don't think so. Cynthia, it's too early."

  "I need to talk now."

  Had she ever put her needs ahead of anyone else's? Certainly never ahead of her mother's.

  There was a power in it.

  She had lived for obligation and duty. Were they parts of love? Or did genuine love demand more? Personal integrity? The strength to stand up for yourself?

  Wouldn't self-love be part, perhaps the biggest part, of the whole love equation? Wouldn't true love say, this is who I am, take it or leave it?

  True love would leave no place for masks, for people-pleasing games. She hoped she and her mother would enjoy a relationship like that one day, but it seemed as if they would have to start rebuilding from scratch.

  Cynthia sat at the table and ignored her mother showing her annoyance by being rough with the coffee things. Instead Cynthia put her gift, the bear, at the center of the table and studied it.

  "That'
s an ugly piece of art," her mother said grouchily, finally pouring coffee and sitting down. "It has a certain savagery I find distasteful."

  Cynthia supposed that was going to set the tone, but on the other hand, who had put her mother in charge of setting the tone? Who had to accept her attempts to manipulate things?

  It was a choice, and feeling a strange delight in her newfound power, Cynthia made it. She came right to the point.

  "Mother, you called the man I love ugly last night. You called him a monster."

  There was no anger in her tone.

  "Well, he was," her mother said defensively. "He looked like a mangy old tomcat who had gotten the bad end of a fight in an alley. And what do you mean, love?, You've known him days!"

  "I will not allow you to speak of someone I care about like that."

  "Allow me?" her mother said, shocked.

  "You heard me. Allow you."

  "Are you making this man a part of your life, then? I can't bear it."

  "That's your choice to make."

  "Are you saying you would choose him over me? Over your own mother?"

  "Yes," she said, and she heard the strength and conviction in her own voice. A woman was supposed to choose her man over her mother. It was the final rite in growing up. It was a rite of passage.

  "He's ugly," her mother said defiantly.

  Cynthia got up from the table.

  "He's not ugly," Cynthia said quietly. "Nor is this carving of the bear. They both possess enormous strength and power. As do I. The strength and power to decide the course of my own life, to choose for myself whom I will and will not love."

  "Cynthia, this is foolishness—"

  Cynthia held up her hand. The bear demanded respect. "I won't be helping with your next book, Mom. I'm going to look into opening an art gallery here at La Torchere."

  Her mother's mouth worked soundlessly.

  "And I'm going to marry the man I love."

  "Marry him? Has he asked you?"

  Cynthia smiled. "No. I'm going to ask him."

  "Cynthia, that is not how things are done!"

  "No, Mother, what you mean is that is not how you would do things. I am making my own choices from this moment forward. I am having my own life."

  Her mother heard her resolve and saw her daughter's strength.

  "I always saw this in you," she said sadly. "A fierce independence. I tried to squelch it. I don't know if that was wrong or right."

  "You did it so you could keep me," Cynthia guessed softly. "Not for my good, but for yours."

  "I only wanted what was best for you, Cynthia. That is all every mother wants for her child. If you marry a man who is so different from you, it will only bring heartache."

  "That's what it brought you, Mother. But it didn't have to. You should have tried embracing his differences instead of constantly trying to mold him into what you wanted him to be. You did the same to me, and now you're going to lose me, too."

  "I don't want to lose you," her mother said. "Tell me what I need to do to keep you."

  "Let me go with your blessing," Cynthia said.

  Her mother looked at her. Cynthia could see the exact moment that Emma saw the truth and the strength and the integrity in her daughter's eyes, because she managed to smile through her tears. "Go then, my beloved daughter," she said. "Go with my blessing."

  Cynthia dressed for her noon rendezvous with Rick every bit as carefully as she imagined that Parris had dressed for her special day the night before.

  She chose one of her new outfits, raspberry capri pants with a matching tank top. She knotted a white sweater over her bare shoulders. The outfit was sexy and bold, but more than that it made a statement. It was the kind of clothing worn by a woman who knew who she was, who knew her own mind.

  At ten to twelve, with her heart in her belly, she made the walk to the beach. It felt as if it took her forever to get there.

  The bench she had shared with Merry—only a few days ago, though it felt like a lifetime—was disappointingly empty.

  Because he was not here did not mean he was not going to come, she told herself.

  But she could feel something in her, an intuition, a foreboding. She could feel something was wrong. She was unsettled as if a hurricane was brewing though there was not a cloud on the horizon and the air was still.

  Her uneasiness increased as she scanned the familiar landscape of the beach. What was wrong?

  She couldn't place it. She glanced at her watch. It was noon, exactly.

  She looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of him coming toward her. But the resort seemed deserted, as if she was the only one here.

  She looked out to sea, to the familiar bay, trying desperately to center herself, to hold on to her hope. Her breath caught.

  Suddenly she knew what was wrong! The rock was gone from the bay.

  Vanished.

  "That can't be true," she told herself, as if saying it out loud could change it. She tried to tell herself it was the tide, a trick of shifting waters, but she could see from the waterline it was low tide right now, not high. The rock should be at its most visible.

  And she knew in her gut, no scientific explanation was going to change what was. She could feel the absence of the rock, as if the sun had blinked out in her universe.

  But then, instead of feeling despondent, she felt the great joy of having risked it all for love. With that acceptance, her heart began to beat very fast—the tattoo as primal as the beating of Native drums.

  The line between reality and fantasy blurred and then was gone.

  Cynthia knew the deeper truth that existed in that place between reality and fantasy. She breathed it. It shimmered along her skin.

  The bear was gone from the sea because they were playing out the circle. The bear had come to life again. It had turned from stone to beast in that place where the force of love made all things possible. The bear walked again and waited. For her.

  She remembered everything she had read about bears. Every single detail.

  But one stood out in her mind.

  It said that anyone who had ever walked in a forest had been watched by a bear without having any knowledge that he was there.

  She could feel him watching her. She scanned the trees beyond the beach and felt the pounding of her heart slow when she caught the faintest movement on the rock bluff.

  He was watching her.

  The young woman in the story had been passive. She had let others control her. She had never played a role in the unfolding of her own life.

  And in that time that was as it had to be. Her culture and her beliefs had dictated those things—on the same circle, but in a different time.

  And with a different woman.

  Cynthia rose and crossed the sand toward the trees. With every step, she felt her power growing.

  Her power to choose, her ability to be strong.

  With every step, she felt herself growing closer to the light.

  When she climbed, finally, into the clearing where she had seen movement it appeared to be empty.

  She stood very still and then saw something fluttering from the trunk of one of the trees.

  A paper was tacked to it. Could this be the movement she had seen from below?

  She took down the picture and looked at it. She recognized it as an architect's preliminary sketch.

  Her eyes filmed over at the beauty of what she was seeing.

  This morning, in the carving of the bear, Rick had shown her what was outside him, the darkness of that outer spirit.

  Now, as she took down the picture and studied it closely, she saw what was inside him. Her resolve hardened. She would not let her lover go. She would follow him into the sea, if need be. She would bring him to the place of safety where his wounds could be healed.

  "Cynthia."

  She turned. He was standing on the edge of the clearing, as if he had always been there, as if he would have walked away if he could have. Tenderly she took in the slouch
of his shoulders, the hauntedness of his expression, the way his hands tensed into fists and then untensed.

  She saw him, his face, for the first time, in the full light.

  And she marveled. For she saw no scars at all.

  She saw only his beauty. The unmarked side of his face was gorgeous, his features even and strong, his eye the most intense shade of blue she had ever seen.

  No, that wasn't quite correct.

  She moved toward him, and her sense of recognizing him deepened, and then, startled, she stopped.

  She had seen that exact shade of blue before.

  Her mind slowly assembled the information it was receiving.

  He was older, of course, and the two very different sides of his face had made it hard to recognize him even in the full light.

  "Rick?" she whispered. "Rick Barnett?"

  He nodded, sheepish, maybe even ashamed.

  She crossed the remaining distance between them, reached out and touched him, both her hands on both sides of his face. She touched his scars and she touched his perfection with equal reverence.

  "I was leaving," he confessed, his voice hoarse with held emotion. "I wasn't planning on saying goodbye."

  She nodded.

  "And I knew who you were. All this time. But I never told you who I was."

  She nodded again, her heart unfolding like a flower within her breast.

  "Cynthia, I thought I was just flawed outside. But I'm not. I'm just plain old flawed. I don't trust. Can't. I'm hard and cold. I'm—"

  She put her fingers to his lips, stopping him.

  "You're here," she whispered. That was all that mattered. He had—somehow, someway—overcome all that self-doubt and come to her.

  "I don't want to be."

  She smiled through her tears. "Sometimes love does for us what we cannot do for ourselves."

  He looked hard at her. "Cynthia, I don't think I believe in love. But if I did—" His voice faltered.

  "If you did?" she encouraged him softly.

  "If I did," he admitted, "it would be you."

  "Are you sure you don't want to be here?"

  He choked back a groan. "You steal my strength. If I was stronger, I would have gone as soon as I realized you had spotted me up here. As soon as I realized you would come. Cynthia, don't you understand? You deserve better. You deserve a man who is whole in every way."