The Space Between Sisters (25 page)

“No, thank you,” she said, her eyes drooping closed.

He sat down gingerly on the end of the bed. “Are you going to be all right?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, drowsily. And then, without thinking, right before she fell asleep, she said, “Sam, I am
so
in love with you.”

S
ometime during the night the smell of coffee invaded Poppy's sleep. It smelled . . .
it smelled delicious.
Was it morning already? She sat up, groggily. But no, the view through the sleeping porch screen was one of almost impenetrable darkness. Someone was awake, though. Someone was brewing coffee. She got out of bed, and, maneuvering by the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen, she made her way there and found Sam sitting at the breakfast table, his laptop and a cup of coffee in front of him.

“Hi,” she said, from the doorway.

Sam looked up, an unreadable expression on his face.

“The smell of coffee woke me up,” she explained, feeling self-conscious in her rumpled clothes.

“Help yourself,” he said, neutrally, gesturing at the coffeepot on the counter.

She found a mug in the cupboard, filled it up, and took a carton of half-and-half out of the refrigerator. She poured some into the cup, and found a spoon for stirring. After a moment's hesitation, she came to sit at the table with him.

“What are you doing?” she asked, tentatively, sipping her coffee.

“Inventory,” he said, concentrating on his computer screen.

“Do you always work on inventory”—she glanced at the clock on the stove—“at 2:30
A.M.
?”

“Do you always tell people that you're in love with them?” he asked, looking up at her.

Her hand wobbled and she spilled a little coffee on the table. She
had
told him that before she'd fallen asleep. Her cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze. “I meant that,” she said, quietly.

He shook his head. “You shouldn't throw words like that around.”

“I didn't.
I don't.
I've never said that to anyone before.
Ever,
” she said, but he looked unconvinced.

She shrugged. “You can believe whatever you want,” she mumbled, wrapping both of her hands around her mug, and staring down into it. She wouldn't take those words back. They were the only words that meant anything to her right now.

She took another sip of coffee, but her stomach clenched, uneasily. When was the last time she'd eaten? she wondered. Lunchtime. And since then, all she'd had was a sea breeze, and now a cup of coffee. The coffee had smelled wonderful, but now it felt as if it was burning a hole in her stomach.

“What's wrong?” Sam asked, noticing her expression.

“Nothing. I think maybe I should eat something, though.”

For the first time that night he looked amused. “What, was the menu at the Mosquito Inn not up to your standards?”

She shuddered, remembering the dirty cloth the bartender had wiped the dirty bar with. “Oh, God, they don't actually serve food there, do they?”

She saw a shadow of a smile cross his face. “No. I don't think
the Health Department would allow that.” He studied her then, not unsympathetically. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I'd love something,” she confessed. But when she got up to get it, he waved her back down again. He opened the refrigerator, rummaged around in it, and took out a bowl covered with Saran Wrap. “There's some leftover pancake batter,” he offered.

She nodded, eagerly. She was starving now. He put a pan on the stove, turned the gas on, and melted butter into it. When it started to sizzle, he poured the batter in, forming half a dozen perfect circles with it.

“I didn't know you could cook,” she said.

“I can't, really. But if I have a specialty, it's breakfast.”

“Those look good,” Poppy said as Sam flipped the golden pancakes over.

“Most divorced fathers have a few tricks up their sleeves,” he said, sliding them onto a plate.

As soon as he put them down in front of her, she practically pounced on them. “Thank you,” she said. And, too impatient to be polite, she doused them with syrup and started sawing into them.

It was quiet at the table as Poppy ate, and then she noticed Sam watching her with interest, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

“I'm sorry,” she said, and even though her mouth was still full she was already spearing more pancake onto her fork. “I'm being rude, aren't I?”

“No,” Sam said, smiling as she put another forkful into her mouth. “Actually, yeah, you kind of are. But it's cute. You remind me of . . . you remind me of a kid, stuffing your face like that.”

She swallowed, and put her fork down. Suddenly, she wasn't hungry anymore.

“What's wrong?”

She shrugged. “Is that how you think of me? Like a little kid?”

“Right now, yes.”

“Because that's
not
how I want you to think of me.”

“How do you want me to think of you?”

“As a woman. Preferably, a desirable woman.”

“And you don't think I think of you that way?”

She shook her head.

“Poppy, do you know why I'm sitting in my kitchen, drinking coffee, and working at 2:30
A.M.
?”

“No,” she said, honestly.

“Because it is taking all of my willpower not to do what I really want to do, which is to take you up to my bedroom . . .”

Poppy gulped. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said, staring back at her steadily.

She ran a tongue along her lower lip. It was sticky with syrup. “So why . . . why are we sitting down here?”

“Because I need to spend a night with you like I need a hole in my head.”

That broke the mood. She scowled at him. “That's not a very nice thing to say.”

“No,” he agreed. “It's true, though.”

She stood up and started to clear her plate from the table.

“Hey, come on. Don't get mad,” he said, and when she passed him on her way to the sink he caught the sleeve of her blouse and tugged on it, playfully. She let him take the plate out of her hands. He set it on the table and pulled her into his lap. He put his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. “I said I didn't
need
a hole in my head. I didn't say I wasn't willing to have one. As long as it's small, and it's in a very inconspicuous place.”

Poppy laughed. It was impossible for her to stay mad at him
right now. His lips left her neck and found her lips. “Mmmm, you always taste so sweet.” He reached across the table for the bottle of syrup. “You know,” he said, “we could have some fun with this.”

“What do you mean?”

His smiled, mischievously, and, holding up the bottle, he pantomimed pouring it down the front of her blouse.

“Sam!” she said, but she was laughing. Then she turned serious. “Does this mean we're going up to your room?”

“Do you want us to?”

She nodded, her heart pounding. “If you don't . . . don't think it will be a mistake.”

“Oh, I
definitely
think it will be a mistake,” he said, but he was smiling.

“Will you . . . carry me?” she asked, thinking of all the movies she'd seen this done in. It had always struck her as the height of romance.

“I can probably do that,” he said teasingly. “Let's go.” He picked her up and carried her through the kitchen, into the living room, and up the stairs. And Poppy savored the feel of his arms around her and of her cheek resting against his chest. He reached the top step, turned down the hallway, and then stopped in the doorway to his room.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asked, looking down at her.

“Yes,”
she said, her desire mixing with nervousness.

He lay her down on his bed, and lay down beside her. They held each other then, and kissed each other, and Poppy pressed herself against him, and pulled his T-shirt off, and ran her hands over his bare chest. She was waiting for him to undress her, too, but he took his time, and continued at a relaxed, unhurried pace
that Poppy found maddening. She wanted him so badly. Didn't he know that?

“Are you going to take my clothes off?” she asked, finally.

“I was getting around to it,” he said, smiling.

Well, you could get around to it a little faster,
she thought. But at that moment Sam began to unbutton her blouse. He took off everything except her pale blue, lace edged bra and panties. She had fantasized about this moment so many times over the last several weeks, but, as it turned out, even in her fantasies it hadn't been this sweet.

S
am, almost against his will, let his eyes brush over her. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, but he couldn't help but think she didn't belong here, in his already rumpled bed, with its brown-and-white-checked sheets and scratchy brown blanket. No, she belonged somewhere else, on a tropical island, maybe. Frolicking on a powdery white sand beach, with bottle green water licking her ankles, and palm fronds waving above her head.

“Is something wrong?” she asked him.

“
Nothing
is wrong,” he assured her. “This is just a little surreal, having you in my bed like this.”

“Surreal in a good way?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning down to kiss her sweet, syrupy mouth. “In a very good way.” He thought now about the box of condoms in his bedside table drawer, tucked under a financial document so boring looking that it would discourage even his most curious child from looking any further.

He kissed her more deeply, hungry for her taste and for the feel of her body against his. Still, he knew he needed to go slowly. He remembered the night on the dock at Birch Tree Bait. His
hand had brushed against her breast while they were kissing and it was as if he had delivered an electric shock to her.

There was more kissing now, more touching, and stroking. Sam loved the way she ran her hands over his chest and back and stomach; even with his blue jeans and her panties separating them, he was unbelievably aroused. He dipped his fingers inside her bra and caressed her nipples, then trailed a hand lightly down her stomach, which was silky smooth and perfectly suntanned. But when he reached the waistband of her panties, he felt, or imagined he felt, a little tremor pass through her. He didn't know if it was desire, or something else. Something like fear. Because when he thought about it now, that was what he had seen in her eyes down at the dock. She'd been quick to cover it up, but it had been there nonetheless. He'd frightened her, crossing a line he hadn't even known was there.

He stopped what he was doing. “Poppy,” he said, understanding something about her for the first time. “Did . . . did somebody . . . hurt you?”

She hesitated.

“I know we never talked about this,” he said, “but that night, the night Linc got in an accident, when we were kissing, something happened. You pulled away from me. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she said. But now she wouldn't meet his eyes.

“Poppy,” he said again, turning her face gently towards him. “What happened that night? And . . . before that night?”

She sighed, clearly troubled.

“If you don't want to talk about it . . .”

“No, I do. I want to, Sam. But I'm not sure I know how to. I've never told anyone about it before.”

Sam waited. He thought about turning off the bedside table lamp. Would it be easier for her to tell him this in the dark?
Maybe. But he wanted to see her face, especially since he sensed how important this was. So he didn't rush her, but when she bit her lower lip in frustration, he knew how hard she was finding it to put this into words.

Finally, he said, “You know, sometimes how you say something matters less than just . . . saying it.”

So she told Sam the story, slowly. Haltingly. Sometimes she looked at him. Sometimes she didn't. It was hard to listen to, partly because he knew what was coming, and partly because he knew it was too late to protect her. He thought of Poppy at sixteen, walking home from school on a spring day, and he wished he could turn back the clock and change the course of that afternoon. He knew now, in the telling of it, how much it had altered her life. And the fact that she'd carried this with her all of these years without ever telling anyone seemed to him to have been a terrible burden. When she was done talking, he pulled the sheet up over them and folded her into his arms, trying to transmit as much warmth to her body as he could.

“I'm so sorry that happened to you,” he said. She nestled against him. “Are you okay? Right now, I mean.”

She met his eyes. “I'm okay,” she said. And she sounded surprised. “I didn't know I could do that. And, by the way Sam, the reason I forgot to take the keys out of the lock when I was closing Birch Tree Bait that night was because I was so preoccupied. I'd let myself think about that, really think about it, for the first time in years.”

He stroked her back, and kissed her, tenderly, on her temple. But the conversation wasn't over yet. He had another question for her. “So, the men you've been with since then . . . you've never wanted to tell any of them?”

“No,” she said, softly. And then, for the first time since coming
up to his bedroom, she smiled. “Believe it or not, Sam, even though I'm in your bed in the middle of the night in my bra and panties, I actually have a problem with intimacy.” She propped herself up on her elbow. “Once, I had a boyfriend for six months. That was a personal record for me. Usually, I tried to end things before they got to that point. But I thought he might be different. He was . . . he was a nice guy, a
really
nice guy. And, more importantly, he wasn't in any hurry for us to, you know, be together, or if he was, he didn't let it show. He said he'd wait, until marriage, if necessary. He thought that was the issue for me, and I let him think that. And then one day, I decided, we should try. Just . . .
try
. He didn't know about what had happened to me, but he knew I didn't have a lot of experience, and I thought it would be all right. When the time came, though, I panicked. I just completely . . . panicked. I broke up with him after that. I told him I wasn't ready for a serious relationship.”