Saving Sara (Redemption #1) Page 11

  Greg had never made her heart pound or her veins feel like viscous honey flowed through them. Even now, ten minutes later, she still felt the residual heat from being confined in a car with Jake.

  When he’d flirted with her, she remembered what it felt like to trade banter with a guy. It felt good. A flicker of joy in an otherwise dull existence.

  For that’s what she was doing. Existing. She acknowledged it, accepted it, and at least in Redemption she could exist on a more acceptable level than in New York City.

  She liked the solitude. Embraced it. Just as she’d embraced a return to her past with the pyrography. Her work continued to excel, like she was pouring out her grief through her creativity and healing in the process.

  The pieces she’d done for the fair featured cartoon characters getting into mischief, the kind of doodles she’d done to make Lucy laugh. She hoped they sold for a reasonable price and added to the coffers for Sergio. If extra money could buy him better treatment, and ultimately save his life, she’d have done well. She’d give anything to have had extra time with Lucy and if she could gift those poor parents the same, she would.

  She padded to the back window and stared at the work shed, a mere dot at the back of the property. With no kids at the camp, this was a perfect time to go explore her old stomping ground. But still she hesitated. Afraid.

  Of what? Facing memories of the past and remembering happier times? Confronting the young woman she’d once been and finding herself lacking now?

  Shaking her head at her foolishness, she slipped out the back door and strolled toward the shed. Bees buzzed in the background, their low hum soothing as she inhaled the heady blend of mint, rosemary and sage. That was another thing that was better out here than in the city: the freshness of everything. She’d lost a lot of weight after Lucy’s death but having a profusion of herbs and vegetables on offer from Gran’s garden meant she’d been experimenting with pastas and bakes. Her waistline thanked her.

  When she reached the dilapidated shed, her breath caught. A vivid memory flashed across her mind of the last time she’d been down here. She’d been sixteen and Vera had been in Florida, chasing some strip club owner. Gran had been attending a church meeting and a delivery guy had dropped by with a parcel. He’d been late teens, cute, with shaggy blond hair, pale green eyes and long eyelashes. He’d asked her out. She’d said she’d think about it. Then bolted to the shed to recreate his likeness on a piece of cherry wood.

  Smiling, she jiggled the handle on the door like she used to, until it gave and the door creaked open. Mustiness greeted her, along with a comforting smell that had been branded on her receptors a long time ago: dry wood.

  Sunlight poured in through the east- and west-facing windows, highlighting the motes dancing in the air. Dust and cobwebs covered her old office chair, her worktable, and the box of tools stacked neatly to one side.

  There, in the middle of the table, was Delivery Boy.

  Feeling more lighthearted than she had in years, Sara entered the shed and picked up the wood. She swiped the years of dust off, revealed the burnt etching.

  It was crude, rudimentary, done in the throes of a new crush and she smiled, remembering what it was like to be young and innocent with her whole life in front of her. Remembered the butterflies and anxiety of wondering if he really liked her or if he just asked all the girls out. If Gran would let her go. And if she did, what she should wear.

  Sadly, Vera had turned up out of the blue the next day and taken her to Florida. Her crush on Delivery Boy never went beyond a few wishful daydreams. And she hadn’t returned to Gran’s until she’d finished college, had met Greg and was established in New York City.

  Glancing around the shed, she realized something. She should never have given up who she was for Greg. Should never have hidden her hobbies. Should never have become the woman he wanted her to be for fear of being abandoned.

  She had her mom to thank for that. That had been Vera’s trademark, dumping her at Gran’s whenever the wanderlust hit, which was often. But in becoming the corporate financial businesswoman, she’d left behind the part of her that liked to create and dream, the part of her that made her whole.

  Maybe that was some of the attraction to Jake: he admired her work. It fostered her creativity. But she knew it was more than that and as she tucked Delivery Boy under her arm, she couldn’t help but look forward to spending more time with him.

  She’d keep Delivery Boy in a special place inside to remind herself to never lose sight of what she wanted. To be true to herself and no one else.

  After all she’d been through she owed it to herself.

  19.

  I think I’m going to be sick,” Cilla muttered, staring at herself in the mirror.

  She had to meet Bryce in forty-five minutes at Buoy’s in Dixon’s Creek for their dinner date but all she could do was glare at her reflection.

  She should never have gone to this much trouble.

  She’d ditched her usual garb of leggings, kaftan tops and flip-flops for stockings, a fitted black dress and heels. Her, in heels! She’d probably fall flat on her face and it would serve her right for trying to get gussied up for a man young enough to be her son.

  Not that the black dress was immodest. It had half-sleeves and a demure neckline, and ended at her knees. But paired with the sheer stockings and heels, it made her feel positively wanton. Or maybe that had more to do with the constant images of Bryce floating through her head.

  While tonight terrified her, she shouldn’t be looking forward to it this much. Because as her nerves increased, so did her anticipation.

  Tonight would be her first date in over four decades.

  No pressure on her or anything.

  “Silly old fool,” she said, poking her tongue out at her reflection as she spun away to grab her handbag.

  Tonight would go exactly as she planned. She’d arrive on time at the restaurant, order the fastest things to cook on the menu, focus on eating and not talking, then make a quick getaway.

  All up, she envisaged spending about ninety minutes in Bryce’s company, with most of that time spent on eating and discussing mutual patients. Simple.

  But forty minutes later, as she entered Buoy’s ahead of schedule, her plan hit a snag. Bryce was in the foyer. Waiting for her. Looking like a model who’d stepped off the cover of a magazine.

  Black pants. Black shirt. Black eyes that bored into her.

  She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Desperately tried to quell the heat that rose from deep within to flood her body.

  Oh heck.

  “Cilla, you look lovely.” He kissed her cheek, a soft, lingering brush of his lips that short-circuited what was left of her common sense. “Shall we go in?”

  She managed a mute nod as his hand rested in the small of her back, gently guiding her forward. Acutely aware of the warmth of his hand seeping through her dress as they walked through the dimly lit restaurant, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, mentally reciting a childish “left-right, left-right” to avoid chanting what she really wanted to: “Take me now, take me now.”

  When they reached the table, Cilla almost collapsed with relief into her chair, earning a raised eyebrow from Bryce.

  “Shut up. I’m flustered,” she said, not surprised that he grinned at her bluntness.

  “If that’s a compliment, thank you.” He sat opposite, the light from the lone candle on the table casting flickering shadows, highlighting his chiseled cheekbones. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re having the same effect on me.”

  She made a rude snorting sound and he laughed.

  “How about we relax and enjoy each other’s company tonight? No pressure, no expectations. What do you say?” He rested his forearms on the table and she couldn’t help but stare at the way his shirt pulled across his shoulders, his biceps.

  What should she say? What she was thinking couldn’t be articulated out loud, not when decades worth of hormones were
rioting through her body.

  “I’m starving. Let’s order,” she said, snatching a menu and burying her nose in it.

  If he found her boorish or rude, he didn’t say. At least one of them had brought his manners along tonight. But as they discussed the various items on offer, Cilla found herself relaxing. She loved food and it looked like Bryce was a fellow aficionado. Only after ordering cured ocean trout with caper butter, spice-glazed duck breast and chocolate candied pecan tart did she remember her plan to eat fast and escape.

  By the time they had three courses, it’d be close to midnight. What was she thinking?

  She hadn’t been—that was the problem.

  Since the moment she’d caught sight of Bryce tonight and he’d kissed her cheek, she’d been drifting in some kind of alternate universe where average sixty-year-old women could actually be attractive to sexy forty-two-year-old men. A ludicrous, upside-down kind of place that didn’t exist, but maybe, for tonight, she could delude herself into believing it could.

  “That’s a great thing you’re doing, organizing the fair for Sergio,” Bryce said, his admiration making her blush again. “It’s all he talks about.”

  “His parents are really struggling; the money will help.” She shrugged, uncomfortable with too much praise. Seeing Josephina and Paolo’s relieved smiles when she’d told them a rough figure of how much she hoped to raise with the fair had been thanks enough.

  “You’re still doing it,” he said, twirling a wine glass stem between his fingers.

  “Doing what?”

  “Downplaying how amazing you are.” He stared at her, trying to convey a message she had no hope of understanding. “You used to do it when I was at your place with Tam. You’d whip up these amazing feasts and act like it was nothing. You’d help Tam with her assignments. You’d keep the house spotless. And you worked. You were like this super-mom . . .”

  For the first time since he’d bowled back into her life, he appeared uncomfortable, his jaw clenched like he didn’t want to say too much. “I’m not presuming to know anything about your marriage but Tam hated her father and you faded into the background deliberately when he was around, like you were invisible. So I’m guessing that’s why you’re so modest.”

  Cilla should be angry. She should rant and rally against Bryce’s presumptuousness. Instead, she found herself nodding.

  “Life with Vernon was hell. I stayed with him for Tam’s sake and in the end she resented me for it. Lost all respect, because I put up with him for so long.” A familiar sadness overwhelmed her, quickly replaced by annoyance that she’d allowed herself to wallow, even for a second. Her chin snapped up. “I’m proud of what I do these days. My naturopathy. Volunteering. Being a respected member of the community. But I guess the years of being invisible took their toll.”

  “An incredible woman like you should never be invisible.” He glowered, suddenly fierce, as he reached across the table and snagged her hands. “I want you to know that I see you, Priscilla Prescott. I see you.”

  Cilla rarely cried but at that moment, with Bryce’s strong, warm hands holding hers and the tenderness in his steady gaze more reassuring than anything she’d ever experienced from a man, she felt like bawling.

  She cleared her throat and eased her hands out of his. “Want to know what I see?”

  The corners of his mouth quirked. “Do I really want to hear this?”

  “I’m going to tell you anyway. I see a smooth charmer who for some unfathomable reason has his sights set on an old woman—”

  “Stop right there.” His glower intensified, making her squirm a little. “There’s a significant age gap between us. I get it—”

  “Eighteen years to be exact.”

  “Eighteen years. Whatever.” He blew out an exasperated huff. “The age difference is irrelevant to me. We’re not talking marriage here, Cilla. We’re dating.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “At least, that’s what I’d like to do. Date you.”

  She gaped at him, stunned he’d even contemplate dating her. One dinner together didn’t constitute dating—far from it. A casual meal between friends. Nothing more. But he’d misconstrued her acceptance of his dinner invitation and had morphed it into dating?

  “I’m not interested in having kids.” He hesitated, his glance darting away before refocusing on her. “Truth is, I can’t have kids and I reconciled myself to that fact years ago. So I get my kid fix by treating them. I lead a full life. I travel. I date women. But I’ve never met anyone I’d like to spend more than a few weeks with.”

  Yet he’d looked her up just a day after arriving in Redemption. Bizarre. As for his infertility, it saddened her to think an amazing man like him couldn’t pass on his genes or didn’t seem interested in other options. But it wasn’t her place to question him. None of her business.

  Before she could speak, he held up his hand. “And I don’t need any trite apologies that I can’t have kids. It doesn’t bother me and frankly, I don’t want them. So now that I’ve pre-empted another argument against us spending time together, and dispelled the age gap as irrelevant, what else can you come up with?”

  Annoyed that he had circumvented her next argument, the one citing that time spent with her would be wasted when he could be dating someone his own age with a view to children, she reached for a little white lie.

  “Has it occurred to you that maybe I’m not interested in dating anyone? That maybe I don’t like you that way?”

  “Liar,” he murmured, reaching across the table to place his fingertips over her wrist pulse. “And the way your heart’s beating proves it.”

  She snatched her hand away and he laughed.

  “Come on, Cilla. Let’s have some fun while I’m in town.”

  “I haven’t had fun in two decades, so trust me, you’ll be disappointed.”

  Damn. She hadn’t meant to blurt that out. His eyes widened in surprise.

  “You haven’t dated at all since Vernon died?”

  She shook her head, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. “After what I put up with, I like being alone.”

  “So you haven’t . . . I mean . . . Crap.” It was his turn to blush and he looked so awkward she took pity on him.

  “No, I haven’t,” she said, unable to comprehend they were actually discussing her non-existent sex life. “Bet that douses your interest.”

  He tilted his head, as if studying her. “On the contrary, I see it as my duty to reintroduce you to fun.”

  “So you see me as a duty now. Nice.”

  How could one word, fun, be laced with so much promise?

  A bolt of potent longing shot through her, making her rub her arms.

  “I’m teasing,” he said, his slow, sexy smile intensifying her longing. “I’d like to spend time with you. No pressure, no expectations. For the simple reason I like you and I’m attracted to you.”

  There was nothing simple about having a guy like Bryce fancy a woman like her. But in that moment, with sincerity radiating from his steady stare, she decided to throw caution to the wind for the first time in her life.

  “Let’s see how this goes,” she said, remaining noncommittal while inwardly yearning for him to say “Let’s ditch the restaurant and head back to my place.”

  It had been so long, though, that she wouldn’t know what to do. Sex with Vernon had been as awful as the rest of their marriage. No satisfaction for her. A few rough thrusts from him, leaving her feeling empty and used. She’d considered sex yet another marital duty she had to fulfill, like cooking and cleaning and raising Tam. As lackluster and miserable as the rest of her life had been with Vernon.

  She couldn’t contemplate sex with Bryce. Despite the way her body reacted to the timbre of his voice and the power of his glances, her long dry spell ensured that she’d make a fool of herself before they’d begun.

  “I can live with that,” he said, with not a hint of smugness. He raised a wine glass. “To us and seeing how it goes.”

  Emboldened by h
er decision to allow their relationship to unfold, she picked up her glass and clinked it against his. “To seeing how it goes.”

  The rest of her toast, which went something like “Here’s to senile old women who start fantasizing late in life and need to be committed,” she kept to herself.

  Over the next few hours, and three exquisite courses that tantalized her palate almost as much as Bryce tantalized her, they talked. Laughed. Flirted.

  And for the first time in her life, Cilla felt appreciated. Like her opinions mattered. Like she could entertain. Like she was worthy of attention.

  She’d known Vernon had battered her self-esteem until it didn’t matter. She’d blamed herself, too, for tolerating it. Had deluded herself into believing all these years, even the last twenty without him, that she was okay. She was a survivor. A strong woman capable of anything.

  But as she sipped her peppermint tea and listened to Bryce wax lyrical about the sights and smells and tastes of India during a locum stint in Bangalore, she realized something.

  In keeping her solitude, she’d shut herself off from emotions.

  She didn’t feel anymore.

  Sure, she loved Tam, but that was more an obligatory kind of love a mother had for her child. They rarely conversed and Cilla didn’t push. She assumed Tam knew how much she loved her and that she was here for her if needed. Maintaining the status quo was easier than confronting the real issue: that they weren’t close and never would be.

  She cared about the kids at the hospital and the townsfolk she helped, but caring didn’t constitute any deep bond.

  Her parents had died in a car crash a month after she’d met Vernon; she’d married him soon after and had Tam at eighteen. Her capacity for love had dwindled since.

  Yet in one evening, Bryce had opened her up to the possibility of feeling again. Of taking a risk. Of moving out of her comfort zone. Of being a woman.

  “So you’re up for checking out my Kama Sutra swing then?”

  Bryce’s question jolted her out of her musings and she choked on her tea. Blushing, she had to clear her throat several times before answering. “Sorry, was thinking about something else for a moment.”