Moondance Beach

  “Much appreciated.”

  “Why do you do it, Duncan?” Lena’s gaze was open and curious. “I mean, what drives you to keep going back?”

  He shook his head, wondering how the hell he’d managed to end up at this particular intersection.

  “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “There’s no easy answer to that.”

  “Maybe we could sit down for a minute?” Lena gestured to the hammock. “I think it’s calling your name.”

  One, two, three seconds passed and Duncan could not move. A voice in his head whispered that he knew better than to accept that invitation. A minute could lead to another, which could lead to something more, and something more wasn’t an option for him.

  “I won’t bite, Duncan.”

  But I might. “All right. For a minute.”

  Lena sat in one of the wicker chairs and Duncan eased into the hammock with a sigh of relief. He leaned his head back and began to gently rock back and forth, feeling the soft breeze move over his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his whole body melt.

  Eventually he said, “I should come clean about something, Lena.” He kept his eyes closed. “I don’t remember very much about you from when we were kids, and now that I know it was you leaving those gifts back then—and now—I feel . . . I feel ridiculous. It never once occurred to me that it was you. You weren’t even on my radar screen.”

  “I didn’t intend for you to feel ridiculous.”

  He opened one eye and studied her. “What was your intent?”

  Lena curled her legs under her and took a sip from her margarita. “Well, back when we were kids, I figured you needed cheering up. When you came home after your injury, I figured you needed cheering up again.”

  “I see a pattern developing.”

  Lena laughed. “Look, I overstepped my bounds these last couple months. I invaded your privacy by putting things in your room, and I apologize for that. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “How the hell did you get in without me hearing you? Did you put a spell on me or something?”

  She shrugged. “I grew up in that house, too, Duncan. I know where every squeaky floorboard is and how to jiggle the door open without making a sound—I had a lot of practice. And though Rowan and Ash may have renovated that place from top to bottom, the floors are still the same. The door latches are the same.” She tipped her head to the side. “Did you wake up the night I brought you the clamshell?”

  “Nope. I had set my alarm for four a.m. so I could catch the first ferry. Finding you in the kitchen was a complete surprise.”

  She nodded.

  “I really liked the feather.”

  “You did? I’m so glad!” Lena broke out into a smile that commandeered her whole face. “I found it right out there”—she pointed to a patch of wildflowers—“when I was headed out for my morning swim.”

  Duncan sat up a bit. “Do you swim a lot?”

  “Every morning and every night when the weather cooperates.”

  Duncan drained the rest of his drink, feeling the tequila and triple sec flow right through his empty stomach and into his veins. “You’re not worried about swimming alone?”

  “Oh, no.” She looked puzzled. “I feel perfectly comfortable. I don’t go very far out, especially at night, and I’ve been swimming on this coastline since I was little. You know how that is.”

  Duncan nodded. Of course he wanted to ask her about her late-night skinny-dip, but there wasn’t quite enough tequila in his bloodstream for that conversation.

  “You are a kind person, Lena. I have a feeling I wasn’t always kind to you in return when we were kids.”

  “You were sick a lot. You were angry at the world.”

  Duncan sat up in the hammock and rested his elbows on his knees. “Being sick isn’t an excuse to be cruel. I’m starting to remember that I might have been an ass sometimes.”

  Lena looked down at her hands where they cupped the margarita glass. “The good news is, you’re less of an ass nowadays.”

  Duncan put his head back and laughed. Hard. It took him a moment to stop laughing. “That was the nicest backhanded compliment anyone has paid me in a very long time.”

  She shrugged. “I only said it because it’s true.”

  “I like you, Lena.”

  She sat upright, placed her glass on a side table, and put her cute bare feet back on the porch floor. She blinked at him. “I like you, too, Duncan.”

  “You’re an intriguing woman.”

  “You’re a complicated man.”

  That little voice in his head was now a screaming banshee. Over and over it yelled for his attention. Like a warning, like a mantra . . . Don’t do it. Don’t say it. Don’t go there. Duncan ignored the warning and told the banshee that he had the situation on lock.

  “Would you like to go to the clambake with me tomorrow night, Lena?”

  She stared at him, her face blank.

  “Unless you have a date.”

  “No!” Lena shook her head, then started over. “What I meant was, no, I don’t have a date. I wasn’t really planning on going.”

  “Neither was I.”

  “So . . . we’re going to plan not to go, but go anyway? Together?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Had he lost his mind? Duncan knew there was no other explanation for what had just gone down. He had asked a woman on a date. He had asked Lena Silva, a resident of Bayberry Island, Massachusetts, to go to the clambake with him, where his entire family would be. What the fuck am I doing?

  “I’ll pick you up at six.” The air stuck in his windpipe, making his words barely audible.

  “I’ll be ready,” Lena said, not meeting his eyes. “Now, let’s go see the rest of the house.”

  Duncan could tell Lena was nervous as she took him upstairs. Her breath was quick, and she drummed her fingers on the banister of the staircase as they ascended. It made sense. It had to be nerve-racking to give a man a tour of the upstairs of a house when, at some point, the tour would surely arrive at the woman’s bedroom door. And then what?

  Also, Lena might feel a bit nervous knowing that Duncan was inches away from her backside as she climbed the stairs, and that would be a legitimate concern—he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. It wasn’t like she was dressed in Daisy Dukes. Her shorts were just a few inches above the knee. But Lena had a set of slim and strong thighs, alluring hips, and a nice rounded ass. How was a man supposed to not notice?

  Duncan had always believed that women were at their sexiest when they weren’t trying to be, and he had no doubt that Lena’s bare feet, surf shorts, and sleeveless T-shirt were part of her natural habitat. In the last week, he’d seen her in a wide range of clothes—jeans, dressy, casual, a skintight mermaid skirt, and nothing at all. He had to say that aside from the totally naked look, this was his favorite.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, Duncan discovered how Lena would handle the bedroom dilemma. “There are only two areas up here,” she said, gesturing to her right. “On that side is my bedroom suite.” Then she gestured to the left. “And on this side is my studio space.”

  Duncan’s interest had gone elsewhere—straight up. He leaned his head back and took in the most astounding skylight he’d ever seen. It jutted up and spiraled outward in the shape of a mollusk shell. When he glanced down at Lena, she was smiling.

  “I’d bet at night you can reach up and touch the stars.”

  “If you like that, then you should see my studio.”

  Duncan was looking forward to whatever surprise awaited him next. “I’m ready when you are.”

  He was wrong about that. Duncan was not prepared for what he saw when Lena led him halfway down a long hallway and threw open a huge set of double doors.

  “Holy shit.” He took a tentative step inside, aware that his mouth had fallen open. “This place is unreal, Lena.”

  He moved into the center of the room, and his reflex was to stretch his
arms out wide so he could gather it in. He hardly knew what to look at first. The room was at least a couple thousand square feet. The ocean-side wall was nothing but a series of huge windows, and the ceiling, featuring three skylights, rose twenty-five feet high. The room was alive with warm light, gleaming wood floors, and touches of painted brick. The view was jaw-dropping. With a quick glance, Duncan could see the turreted Safe Haven and the newly constructed Oceanaire Marine Institute growing up nearby. The only other way he knew to get a view like that was on board a private plane or helicopter.

  Taking up the center of the room was a giant butcher-block worktable stained with splotches of paint and littered with small easels, canvases, knives, and other tools of her trade. Next to it was a paint-splattered metal stool and a huge contraption that looked like it could adjust for a whole range of canvas sizes. Duncan bet it had cost a fortune.

  He scanned the length of the room, noticing an office area with a desk, computer, sound system, and a minifridge. But his gaze landed on a far wall that held a patchwork of shelving and storage spaces.

  “That’s where I stretch and store my canvases,” Lena said. “I paint in a variety of sizes, and sometimes I even get commissions for murals. So I make what I need and stock whatever I’m not using right away.”

  Duncan gave her a sideways glance. “It sounds like hard work.”

  “It can be. But by this point I can do it in my sleep.”

  Lena showed him what she called the “brush room.” The walls were fitted with racks of old pottery jugs used to hold paintbrushes of all sizes. Dozens more brushes were secured on metal strips along the wall and hanging upside down. The room had three sinks and a separate bathroom with a steam shower. The sinks were lined with soaps, rags, and containers of mineral spirits and linseed oil. Just then Duncan noticed there was very little solvent odor. He examined the walls until he located several huge ventilation fans.

  “It’s good you’ve got these,” he said.

  “I have to. I get terrible headaches if I don’t.”

  Duncan wandered toward the center of the studio and once again took in the huge skylight. It was three times as big as the one in the hallway yet far less decorative. “Why do you need a skylight when there are so many windows?”

  “Dispersed light from overhead doesn’t cause glare like light coming from one direction through a window. And I can dim or block the light completely by remote.”

  He scratched his chin. “This is quite a setup you’ve got here. It’s a much bigger operation than I imagined.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I guess I pictured you perched on a little chair with a brush and a beret.”

  That made Lena laugh. “Not hardly.”

  “I never envisioned something this . . . lavish.”

  Lena held up her hands in a Clancy-esque gesture. “Wait a minute. I haven’t always painted in a place like this, Duncan. I spent the beginning of my career in decrepit apartments and a garage or two. This is a dream come true for me.”

  “So you designed the studio?”

  When she crossed her arms under her breasts, Duncan couldn’t help but notice how it improved the view of her cleavage. It was wrong of him, of course. But he couldn’t stop looking.

  “I designed the whole house and hired an architect and a general contractor who could turn my ideas into reality.”

  Duncan stood still, letting that statement sink in. This pretty little painter of mermaids had a core of steel. She had the guts to live bigger than anyone else he knew and to do things other people thought were impossible. It just might be that the two of them had more in common than he’d first thought.

  “Bravo Zulu, Miss Silva.”

  A small wrinkle appeared between her brows.

  “That means ‘way to go.’”

  “Thanks.” She grinned.

  “You go for it, don’t you, Lena?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “I . . . yes. I guess I do. You look surprised.”

  Duncan shook his head. “Impressed, mostly.”

  Suddenly, it occurred to him that he saw no actual paintings in this huge space. “Aren’t you working on anything now?”

  She shrugged. “I am. I’ve got a few things I’m fiddling with, but my manager just took two years’ worth of work to Paris for my show.”

  “Gotcha.” Duncan’s eye was drawn to the only real piece of furniture in the studio, an antique upholstered lounge chair made of what looked like mahogany. The fabric was so worn in spots that the springs were visible. He was about to give it a closer look when Lena slipped in front of him, blocked his progress, and grabbed a sketchbook that had been on the floor nearby.

  “Excuse me,” she said, closing the sketchbook’s cover and pressing it against her thigh. Her chest had broken out in red blotches and she was breathing hard.

  “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.”

  Lena shook her head. “It’s fine. It’s nothing.”

  “So you don’t like people seeing your work in progress?”

  “Uh, it depends on the work.”

  For a moment the two of them stood quietly. Lena looked at the floor and Duncan looked at her, the sweet curve of her neck, her soft shoulder, how cute she looked with her hair pulled up like that.

  Suddenly, her gaze snapped up. “Well, I’ve taken up a big chunk of your time today. I’ll get my keys and drive you back to town.”

  “Are you okay, Lena?” Duncan reached out and touched her upper arm. Her skin was hot and silky, but that annoying banshee was back in his head—don’t do it; don’t say it; don’t go there—but he did. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

  She nodded. “You’re quite welcome.”

  His body made the next move without waiting for the approval of his mind. He dipped his head and left a soft kiss on her lips. It wasn’t the shock-and-awe kind of kiss from the kitchen, but it was the right kind of kiss for the moment. Besides, he wanted to show her he had another side to him.

  “Okay,” she said, way too brightly.

  Duncan was not imagining it—Lena was trying to get him out of there. Since he wasn’t one to force his company on anyone, he just smiled and said, “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  Lena nodded, her ponytail bobbing up and down. “I look forward to it. Just let me get some shoes on so I can drive you—”

  “I think I’ll walk.”

  And that’s when he saw it.

  A small pencil drawing hung on the wall right near the doorway. It was amateurish and definitely not the work of a real artist, but Duncan began to boil with confusion. Why did it look familiar? Had he seen it before? He moved closer, and even as the blood began to pound in his ears, he heard Lena just behind him, mumbling to herself under her breath. No wonder she was hurrying him out.

  He came to stand right in front of the drawing. The frayed and wrinkled piece of paper had been carefully matted and framed, as if it were a treasured piece of fine art. As if it had immense value.

  At the bottom right corner was the scrawled signature of the artist—Duncan Flynn, circa eighth grade. This was his drawing!

  Duncan spun around.

  Lena kept her dark eyes trained on his but didn’t say anything.

  “Why the hell would you keep a drawing I made of you when we were kids?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Remember what?”

  Lena tossed the sketchbook to her worktable and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you truly curious about my reason for keeping it, or do you just want to tell me how pissed off you are that I did?”

  Duncan tipped his head and laughed with disbelief. His stupid sketch was hanging on her studio wall, which meant she’d carried it around for twenty years! Twenty years! Why was she so attached to such a silly memory? Why was she so attached to him? Why had she continued to leave him little gifts?

  Duncan’s stomach twisted in knots—it was too much. Her devotion made him deeply uncomfortable; it suffocated him.
The situation had gone from promising to a complete cluster-fuck in a matter of seconds.

  “You kept it for twenty years.”

  “I did.”

  “I was fourteen.”

  “Yes, and I was eleven.” Duncan saw that Lena was doing everything she could to stop herself from crying. The blotches on her chest had darkened. Her jaw was clamped tight. Her eyes were welling over. And he had no idea why. Why was the sketch such a big deal to her?

  “You don’t remember that day, do you?”

  Duncan shrugged. “What day?”

  “That day.” Lena pointed to the drawing, her finger shaking.

  “Not really.”

  She nodded, then swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. “If you don’t remember the day, you won’t remember my reason for keeping it.”

  Duncan raised his hands in surrender. Seriously, this whole exchange baffled him. “Well, I don’t get it. Sorry. I guess you have your reasons.” He let himself out the door. “Talk to you later, Lena.”

  He heard her small voice say, “Thanks again for everything today.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Twenty years ago . . .

  On a Sunday afternoon in early October, Duncan didn’t have anything better to do, so he started looking around the house for Clancy. He found him slouched on the couch, watching the National League playoffs.

  “Who’s winning?”

  “The Dodgers, but they’re going down.”

  “How do you know? Are you some kind of psychic?” Duncan plopped down next to his brother.

  “No.” Clancy mocked him. “Are you some kind of asshole? Wait—I can answer that. Yes! You’re an asshole!”

  Duncan knuckle punched him in the upper arm. “So you want to ride bikes?”

  “No.”

  “Want to go see if we can get on Da’s computer?”

  “No.”

  “Want to arm wrestle?”

  Clancy let his jaw fall open. “Oh, my God. No, I don’t want to arm wrestle. I am watching the game, butthead.”

  Duncan got up. “You’re just afraid to lose.”

  “I am not.”