The Wall: A Vintage Contemporary Romance, Page 3

  This was what had scared her so badly, scared her into running half a continent to southern Michigan. In that one moment, she had realised just how badly she was damaging herself with her ambition and drive. She had always been determined before to keep her body free from drugs, never to develop a reliance on any type of drug. She had wanted to make her success totally on her own.

  At that moment Sara realised how she had used herself. In an effort to cut an average of four albums a year and to stay at the top of the popular charts, she had sacrificed her time, energy and eventually, in the end, her self-respect. She became marketable, squelching any desire she might have felt inside to break out of the stereotype and adopt a quieter, more relaxed style of music. She had assumed an outrageous style of dress, had gone to the parties with the rich and the well-known, and had been so caught up in her own whirlwind, her personal crazy merry-go-round, that she hadn’t realised just exactly when she had left her own personality behind.

  The one moment, staring at a little white pill, had brought her to her senses after eight long, climbing, striving years. Sara Bertelli was a smashing success. Sara Carmichael was tired, and a little ashamed, and totally alone.

  She would have to reach out to someone, before it became too late.

  Thinking of this made her think of the light promise she had made to a virtual stranger that morning on the beach. She moved, with a sudden eager urgency, and took her new carton of cigarettes along with the several packs that were scattered throughout the cabin and threw them all into the cold and empty fireplace. She struck a match, watched the little flame take the end of the cardboard box and stepped back to watch the cigarettes burn away. The aromatic smell filled the room and she sniffed appreciatively. Still, she couldn’t regret her actions, and a peace that was beginning to become familiar to her took her mind like a wave washing gently on a beach, and a slight smile curved her lips.

  The cigarettes fell to ashes in the fireplace.

  Chapter Two

  Sara decided early in the evening to take another walk. She told herself that she merely wanted to get a shot of her sand castle in the sunset as she went about gathering up her camera bag and a sweater, but she knew that she wasn’t being entirely truthful. There was a deeper reason, but she didn’t try to dig into it. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to know; it was just that suddenly the cabin seemed too small and too empty.

  She swung the bag to her shoulder and headed down the path after locking her back door and slipping the key into her front jeans pocket. The path was already becoming familiar to her, and she watched for little landmarks along the way. There just ahead was a small tree that had four big bumps on its trunk, and just ahead of that was the oak tree that looked as if it had been split in two by lightning several years ago. It was still alive, and ivy tangled all over it, half hiding the scar. An elm tree to the left, a group of more oaks, and a funny little hitch in the path caused by several tangled tree roots, and then sand. A turn to the left and a patch of blue and a blaze of gold and orange from the setting sun, and she stopped to take a picture of the vivid scene before moving on.

  As she climbed up the rise to reach the beach beyond, she finally admitted to herself that she had some hopes of seeing that man Greg again. For some strange reason she wanted to tell him that she burned her cigarettes. For some strange reason she hoped to make his sombre dark face smile. This admission was uncomfortable to her. She knew that now she had admitted this to herself she was going to have problems acting normally in front of him if she did run into him.

  She slid down the other side of the rise, inwardly disappointed to find the sandy expanse empty. Attempting to shrug this away, she briskly took off to the sand castle, only to find it half mauled by big paw prints. Not half as disappointed at this as she was by the sight of the empty beach, Sara studied the remaining erect wall thoughtfully and decided that the ruins would look wonderful when sighted and aligned up with the setting sun. She immediately stretched out in the sand and shot the dark crumbling shape against the blazing orange orb with the haze of surrounding red, and felt well pleased.

  A panting sound came to her ears and the gallop of muted feet. Thus warned, Sara attempted to roll over with the intent of rising to her feet, not wanting to be caught in such a vulnerable position. Before she could attempt to gain even her knees, a large dark shape walloped down on top of her stomach. There was a ferocious grin, a pink lolling tongue and the gleam of wicked white teeth, the pricking of interested ears, and Sara decided to remain lying down as she stared into the bright dark eyes of a very heavy Dobermann Pinscher.

  She murmured gently, “What a big boy you are! Sweetheart, good puppy. Are you always so friendly? I hope this is being friendly—I’d hate to see you unfriendly! Such a pretty puppy! Will you let me scratch your ears? Hmm?” Thus adjured, the large, extremely heavy monster sniffed inquiringly. Sara put up a very slow and careful hand, trying not to think of the sharp teeth just in front of her face, and gently scratched behind the dog’s ear.

  She was rewarded with a wag from the dog’s stump of a tail and an appreciative whine. Feeling a little braver and very foolish, she tried stroking the sleek black head while still murmuring sweet nonsensical phrases to the grinning brute. The dog heaved a gusty sigh, put his nose to her shirt to blow noisily, and rolled over to his side, which sent him falling off of her chest. She was extremely grateful at this and managed to sit up in time to avoid having sand thrown on her face by the dog’s sudden scrabbling about as he scratched his back ecstatically on the sand. This was watched with some amusement, then Sara whirled about with a start as a deep voice sounded behind her. The dog shook himself energetically and pranced over to the man to sit in front of him with an air of expectation.

  “I see you’ve managed to run into Beowulf,” Greg commented mildly, taking in the clinging sand on her sweater and the indentations in the sand underneath her crouching body.

  Feeling at a loss and quite overwhelmed by his unexpected appearance, Sara climbed to her feet slowly, brushing herself off as she murmured, “Beowulf is quite a distinguished name, and so appropriate. Is he always so boisterous?”

  “Invariably. I once entertained the hope that he would settle down when he reached adulthood, but was doomed to disappointment. He didn’t get milder, only larger.” Even standing she seemed to have forgotten just how big the man was, and she stared up at him, unable to dispel a feeling of shyness. Greg looked as powerful as the heaving, panting, grinning brute at his feet. She jumped when he moved to her, saying, “Here, let me brush off your back for you. Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” she replied with a hint of self-mockery, “only scared me a bit. Had I known that he was such a friendly dog, I wouldn’t have been so ridiculously frightened. It’s just when he sat on my chest and showed me those long white teeth that I—”

  “Beowulf is not, I might warn, always so friendly,” he interrupted mildly as he took care to brush off her jeans too, holding her in place with one large hand to her shoulder for support. She felt like a little girl being administered to by her father. “He had a romp this way in the afternoon, and he took care that he sniffed around at the sand castle to get used to your scent. If you’d come on to the beach and he hadn’t been familiarised with you, he might have attacked.”

  Sara swallowed hard. “Oh.” His hand was brushing off the back of her thighs and she wriggled. “I think that’s good enough, thank you. Will—do you think Beowulf might bite me now?” This last was asked in a slightly anxious tone as she shot an apprehensive glance at the black, silent dog who panted calmly as he sat not five feet away.

  Greg raised his head to look briefly at the dog. “I don’t think so,” he said casually. “He didn’t bite you before.”

  “You don’t think so?” she returned sarcastically. “By the way, did I ever thank you for your generous offer to let me roam your beach freely, unaware of the dog?”

  A soft chuckle sounded at this, and Greg clicked his hand at B
eowulf imperatively, at which the dog immediately heaved up and advanced on the two with the most amiable of ambles.

  Sara backed up sharply at this and a long hard arm snaked out to curve around her waist and pull her up short. She started to lean against it, then to wriggle protestingly as the dog came closer. “Stop that, for heaven’s sake!” Greg told her impatiently, looking down at her large eyes and apprehensive look. Then his own face softened slightly, although she was too busy noticing the dog to see it, and his voice softened too. “Don’t you see that he won’t hurt you if he knows I approve of you and show you friendliness? Hold still and let him get close.”

  She tried to stand calmly at this reasonable tone of voice, but couldn’t help leaning back on his arm a bit as Greg moved to the dog and started to talk quietly to the beast, patting him on the head and motioning for him to come up to Sara. She stiffened as the great head lowered to her legs and feet to sniff in a totally friendly manner, and she held her breath. Beowulf snuffled about, raised his head, and wagged his stump slightly. At this, Greg told her with amusement in his voice, “Pet him now, he won’t bite. And you can let out your breath now, too.”

  She expelled gustily, annoyed with his perception, and held out a tentative hand to the dog. A pink tongue lolloped her forefinger. She patted the dark head with a little more confidence and was rewarded with a happy push of the head against her legs and an adoring ogle from those velvet eyes. “I think he likes me,” she said, delighted.

  “Of course he does,” was the calm reply. She looked up as Greg told her, “I told him he could.”

  “Do you mean to tell me he’s a guard dog who attacks anyone not strictly acquainted with his master?” she asked incredulously.

  “Something like that,” he replied shortly. Looking down at her spilled camera bag, he asked her, “Did you manage to get a picture of the castle ruins before Beowulf mauled you?”

  “Yes. That’s why I was down on the sand,” she explained, moving to pick up the things and dust them off carefully.

  “I thought he’d knocked you down.”

  “He probably would have if I hadn’t been prone already,” she muttered, feeling annoyed when he laughed softly at that. How could she have ever wanted to hear him laugh again? It was most provoking. She stared at him consideringly, taking in the change of clothes, the nicer slacks instead of jeans and the dark sweater over a lighter shirt that was open at his strong brown throat. He looked good, and letting her eyes roam over the rather craggy features, she wondered at ever thinking him unhandsome. He was, in his own way, very good-looking. His dark hair was long at the back, curling over the collar of his shirt with a slight wave, and was shorter around the ears and forehead. It swept back with a natural curl. Sara averted her eyes.

  His dark eyes had been trained on her and he had seen her turn away hastily. What must he think of me? she asked silently, questioning her own reaction. In those eyes she had seen for a few minutes a friendly gleam that had dispelled the hard quality from the afternoon. He had laughed, too, and although it had provoked her, she had to acknowledge that the sound had been good. With that laughter, a smile had curved the corners of his well shaped lips, and it had not been a cynical twist but a genuine smile.

  These thoughts made her peep back at him with a tentative smile of her own. He was still regarding her, this time with a thoughtful expression on his lean features. “Do you have the time to perhaps go for a walk down the beach with me?” she invited diffidently.

  One corner of his mouth quirked as she watched. “So I can protect you from the big black doggy?”

  Laughing at him, she replied, “Is that such a bad idea? No, I just thought a walk would be nice.” Greg shot another one of those piercing glances her way and instead of answering, turned and started to stroll towards the water.

  Sara stood with the camera bag dangling from one slim hand and felt bereft as she watched him move away. He turned, saw her standing in an undecided attitude with dark hair blowing around her small face, and her large hazel eyes looking rather uncertain. A flash of white streaked across his face quickly, startling her with its attractive gleam, then was gone. “You can leave your camera bag over in the ferns while we walk,” he told her. “It’ll be quite safe there.”

  Her eyes lit up, and she ran back to the treeline quickly, depositing her bag and then running back. She didn’t stop at his waiting figure but continued past until she reached the water’s edge. Prompted by impulse, she bent and untied her shoes, stripping them and her socks off quickly, rolling her jeans up to her knees.

  Two long legs joined her as she stooped and she sent a quick smile slanting up at Greg’s watching eyes. “I haven’t been wading in the water yet, and I’ve been here for a week,” she remarked in explanation, and straightened. “You could wade if you wanted to, and it wouldn’t hurt those nice slacks if you roll them up enough so that they don’t get wet.”

  She didn’t wait to see what he did but went into the cool water without hesitation. The hard wet sand gave way to soft, silky, shifting coolness, and she dug in her toes in appreciation. A wave crept up and licked delicately around her feet, receding almost immediately. Another came and lapped gently at her toes, and then another. She chuckled with pleasure and walked farther into the water until she was in up to her shins in a continuous push and pull from the ever-continuing waves that swirled about. She walked back to the shallow water, kicking over some stones, with her head bent to watch in the fading light for pretty flashes of colour. When she reached the sandy part of the wetness, past the row of small stones thrown up by waves, she stooped suddenly and dug in with both hands into the sand. Water crept up and touched her feet. She shot a sideways glance at the bare, dark brown shins that joined her in the water, then squatted back so that she could look up at Greg.

  Her dark hair was falling like rain about her shoulders and over her forehead, and she used one arm to try and push it back, still clutching a handful of wet sand. He squatted with her and reached out one hand to push the hair away from her face gently. She smiled a thanks and dropped the sand, rinsing her hands quickly. “Look,” she said softly, as a wave curled again about their feet, barely reaching them as it spent itself. She dug in again under the few inches of water and squeezed the wet sand through her fingers. It oozed delightfully, smooth and cool and very soft. “Under the water everything’s so magical and wonderful. It’s just like silk, so soft and smooth. It’s as fascinating as the bright glints of colour from the stones that flash under the water in the sunlight. They never look half as good dry and at home, did you ever notice? You take them away from the beach and you take all the magic away, all the fresh air and the crying birds and the cold clear water. When you pick up all this wonderful silk, this magical mess, it’s just—mud.” She lifted up her two clenched hands again and let the brown sand plop into the shallow water.

  Turning her head, she was strangely touched to see him reach out and dig his hand into the wet sand as if to see what she meant, his sombre expression lightening at the coolness of the water and the sensation she had so aptly described. He looked at his handful with something akin to fascination, then submerged the handful to clench his fist tight, squirting the sand and water.

  Sara swished her hands around, the action like a small child playing in mud, then stood wiping her clean wet fingers on her jeans. One leg had fallen down and she rolled it up again before it could hit the water. Some distance away Beowulf was charging into the water and galloping back again, chasing waves and snapping jaws at the foamy water. She laughed and pointed him out to Greg.

  “He’s having almost as much fun as I am,” she told the silent man at her side with a chuckle. “How silly we must look, playing in the water! I’d almost forgotten how much fun it could be. It seems like I’ve forgotten a lot lately, and only just came to my senses before plunging forever into a black darkness. Or better than that, I’ve escaped from a dark fortress and found sunlight for the first time in years. I’ve been such a
fool! I wish I’d known how special my childhood was when I lived it! How wise children are, to enjoy the simple things.”

  He hadn’t said anything in reply, but merely watched her face intently, with a curious urgency. Sara gestured as she talked and looked around her, providing him with several different angles to observe her by. He watched the lively eyes and the slight tilt to her nose, and the smiling lips that were a darker shade of the rose that tinted her cheeks. In her eyes there shone a clear and peaceful expression, interspersed with amusement and sometimes mischief.

  She felt good as Greg tucked her hand under his arm and directed her to walking parallel with the shore, water shooting up and swirling around them constantly. “Our shoes?”

  He looked back briefly. “They’ll be okay. They’re past the waterline and won’t get wet.”

  She commented easily, “Do you know, you’re a total stranger to me? I don’t even know your last name, and I didn’t even know of your existence before this morning. Isn’t that a funny thought? I’ve been talking to you with an appalling abandonment!”

  The sun hung low over the water, she noticed. Its bottom curve nearly touched the horizon. The light was greying to her left and the treeline showed almost black. The dark head of the man beside her was tall and she looked up at the profile lit with the red of the fading light. A quick, neat turn of the head and he was staring down into her eyes and the shock of nearness, of his awareness cut through her like a knifing wind. “My last name is Pierson,” he murmured quietly. “But does it really matter?”