Valentine (36 page)

His eyebrows rose at her choice of words, but he quickly collected himself. “I guess I can’t persuade you?”

“No, really. But thanks. I’m going to go back to my cabin in a few minutes.”

Ah, he thought.

“I’ll walk you there,” he said. “In the dark, with the snow still falling. . . .”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said quickly. “Gwen issued flashlights to everyone whose cabin is far away, and mine is in my coat. I’ll be fine.”

“Please, I insist.” He smiled his brightest smile.

That did the trick. He saw her hesitate a moment, then she capitulated. “Well, if you really want to. . . .”

“I really want to. Now, one more dance—for the road.”

She glanced over at Gwen Feldman, who was smiling again.

“Oh, all right. One for the road. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he whispered, leading her out on the floor. As he took her hand in his, he glanced down at his watch: eleven thirty-five.

Twenty-five minutes, he thought.

Twenty-five minutes to Valentine’s Day . . .

The Andrews Sisters belted out “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” as he whirled her around the floor, complete with lifts and dips and all the rest of it. The room began to spin around her, and she was aware that everyone else had stopped dancing to watch them. She grinned and gave herself over to it, allowing him to lead her through the paces. When the song ended, he kissed her on the cheek as the crowd around them burst into applause.

She smiled around at everyone, preparing to leave
the dance floor, but she never made it. At that moment, Mike put on another record, and the room was suddenly bathed in the soft tones of an old favorite, “Dancing in the Dark.” Richard took her in his arms and everyone around them began to dance as a low, smoky woman’s voice began to sing.

Richard Famum was holding her close, and she could feel the heat emanating from his body. She relaxed against him, resigning herself to the inevitability of one more dance. It wasn’t bad, really: this song reminded her of her parents. Her father had played it on the record player in the living room on Central Park West when she was a little girl. Once, when they’d thought she was asleep, she’d tiptoed out of her bedroom and stood in the living room doorway, watching her mother and father dance slowly around the room to this very song.

The mirror ball was spinning, casting a million flickering spots of light around them. She closed her eyes and hummed along with the recording, remembering her parents and being a child, small and protected and safe. She leaned against the tall, dark, handsome man, thinking, Nate. Nate . . .

Jamesport and Mattituck had flown by him, mere blurs of light beside the highway. He’d almost missed the road in Cutchogue, turning right instead of left and traveling for several minutes before he
saw the sign with the word,
PECONIC
, and an arrow pointing in the opposite direction. He’d squeezed the hand brake, nearly going into a skid on the snowy country road. Then he’d turned around and sped off the way he’d come.

Now the flat, open fields of Suffolk County had disappeared, and there was thick black forest on either side of the road. He slowed the bike, looking for signs. He was sure the map had indicated that the turnoff to Lake Peconic was on his left somewhere around here, before he came to the town itself. He peered ahead through the snowflakes.

And there it was. Two big wooden posts with a crossbar, the rustic-looking painted wood sign hanging down. Peconic Writing Colony.

The drive that led away from the road through the dense forest was piled high with snow. There was no way the bike would make it. He cut the engine and leaped from the motorcycle, pulling it off the road into the trees near the signpost. When he was several yards in, he lowered the kickstand. He quickly removed his helmet, chained the front tire, heaved the saddlebag from the seat and over his shoulder, and set off down the winding drive, slogging through foot-high piles of snow in the direction of the lake. As he made his way, placing each foot carefully before the other in the dark,
his boots sinking before him, he looked down at his watch.

Eleven forty-five.

When “Dancing in the Dark” ended, she smiled and gently pulled away from him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Anytime,” she replied.

Then Mike’s booming voice filled the room. “And now, folks, let’s get a jump on Valentine’s Day!”

The music began again. She stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot, not believing her ears. Then, an instant later, she remembered that she hadn’t told them that part of it. Mike and Gwen had only been given a rudimentary, sketchy version of her recent ordeal. She’d never mentioned Valentine’s Day, or the song, the significance of it. It wasn’t the Sarah Vaughan recording, but some woman was singing it, just the same.

“My Funny Valentine.”

The momentary shock passed, and she became aware that Richard Farnum was watching her face closely.

“What?” he whispered. “What is it?”

She regained her composure enough to shake her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing, really. I—I’m very tired. I think I’ll go back to my cabin now. . . .”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll take you. Wait here a minute.
You have that white wool coat, the one you were wearing earlier today, right?”

She nodded. Then she watched as he made his way swiftly through the crowd and bounded up the stairs to Gwen and Mike’s living quarters.

“Darling, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

She turned in the direction of the voice. Gwen was now at her side, reaching out for her arm, a look of concern on her face.

“I’m okay,” she assured her friend, forcing herself to smile. “Just tired, that’s all. Richard’s gone to get our coats. I hate to desert you like this, but—”

“Oh, don’t worry. I understand. You go back to your cabin and get a good night’s sleep. This is probably going to go on for a while: Mike hasn’t made his way through
half
of his collection of old records yet, and he’s not going to stop till he’s played every last one of them!”

She found that she was laughing, laughing with Gwen as Richard arrived before her with their coats and the music once more crashed into her consciousness. Then he was helping her into her coat, and she was smiling rather foolishly around at everybody, and he was gently removing the flashlight from her hand.

“I’ll take that,” he said.

Gwen kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, darling. Sleep well.”

And he was taking her by the arm and leading her across the floor, through the crowd and out onto the porch, into the cold, snowy night.

He kept his hand clamped firmly to her elbow, flashing the powerful beam ahead of them as they made their slow, steady way through the mounting snowdrifts toward the path at the edge of the woods. She seemed calmer now that they were outside, and she even giggled once or twice as they slogged across the open field.

“I hope Gwen has a lot of sleeping bags handy,” she said, pointing. He looked in that direction, and they both laughed. The parking lot near the lake was covered, the van and the cars of the local guests nearly invisible.

“Oh, I’m sure everyone will manage,” he said.

They made it to the edge of the field and plunged into the darkness of the forest, moving slowly, carefully up the path toward Cabin 12.

The strains of the song followed them.

“I’m sorry to be such a spoilsport,” she said, peering forward into the beam from the torch to avoid running into the trees that loomed up at either side of
the narrow path. “I hope you’ll find a good partner for the contest.”

“Oh, I think I’ve had enough dancing for one night,” came the voice from the dark beside her. “Besides, I’m a little tired, too. I’ll see you to your door, then I think I’ll call it a night.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s probably best.”

“Just a few more steps and we’re there,” he said.

He could hear the music ahead of him, and he saw the lights through the trees. A party, he thought. They’re having some kind of party. He moved forward toward the parking lot at the end of the long, long driveway. He was at the edge of the forest now, looking out at the big main house and the snowy baseball field and the still, black lake.

Then he saw it, off to his left: the beam of a flashlight moving up the path through the trees. And he heard voices fairly close to him, a man’s and a woman’s.

Jill.

He stopped in the drive, clutching the helmet in his left hand, the saddlebag slung over his right shoulder. He looked at the house by the lake again, all lit up and shining in the snow. Everyone else is probably there, he thought. But Jill wasn’t there: she was walking away through the woods somewhere on his left. Walking with a man . . .

He left the road and plunged into the trees, in the direction of the flashlight beam and the voices.

“Well, here we are,” she said as they arrived at the door of Cabin 12. They stood together in the pool of light from the single bulb above the door. “Thank you for seeing me home.”

“Of course.” Richard Farnum smiled. “You don’t happen to have anything warm to drink in there, do you?”

“No,” she said. “Sorry. I just want to get to bed, really. Thanks again.”

She unlocked her cabin door, aware that he was lingering. She got the distinct impression, without turning around, that he was watching her. Oh, dear, she thought fleetingly. I hope he’s not going to be difficult . . .

She opened the door and stepped inside. Turning in the doorway, she saw that Richard was indeed still watching her.

“Well, good night,” she said, and she smiled again.

They regarded each other a moment. Then he grinned.

“Good night,” he said, raising his hand in a little salute. He reached forward with the other, offering her the flashlight.

“You’ll probably need that to get back to your cabin,” Jill said. “I’ll get it from you tomorrow.”

“Okay. ‘Bye.” He turned and started off down the path.

With a little sigh of relief, she shut the door.

He moved away down the snowy path, shining the torch before him. As he moved farther down into the forest, he glanced at his watch again.

Two minutes, he thought. Two minutes to Valentine’s Day.

When he was sure he couldn’t be seen from the cabin, he switched off the flashlight and stepped off the path into the trees.

She slowly removed her coat and dropped it at the foot of the bed. She yawned and stretched, thinking, I haven’t danced that much in years. Tara belongs to that gym around the comer from us, and she’s been after me to go with her. Maybe I should become a member. Especially now, with the baby coming . . .

Nodding to herself, she reached over to turn down the covers on the bed.

He watched the strange man move away down the path, the beam of the flashlight flickering ahead of him. When the man had disappeared among the trees, he stepped forward toward the light of the cabin. He wondered who the man was. . . .

Then he dismissed the thought. God, he told himself,
this whole thing is making me paranoid. He’s just some other writer who’s staying here, who walked her to her door, for Heaven’s sake! Stop panicking . . .

He arrived in the pool of light outside the cabin, smiling in anticipation of the surprise and delight he’d see on her face when she opened the door. Grinning, he reached up and knocked.

She froze, the quilted comforter clutched in her hand. Oh, God! her mind cried. How on earth—

Then she realized who was probably knocking on her door. He hadn’t even made it more than a few yards down the path, and he’d decided to give his powers of seduction another try. With a grimace, she moved toward the door.

“Who is it?” she called, trying to sound surprised.

“Jill, open up. It’s me, Nate.”

She stared at the door. “What?”

“It’s Nate, Jill. Remember me? Surprise!”

Then relief surged through her, followed immediately by a wave of purest joy.

“Nate!”

She threw open the door, and there he was. Grinning that lopsided grin, saddlebag over one shoulder, helmet in hand, soaked to the skin.

“Nate!” she cried again.

And he stepped forward into her arms.