“We’re heading for Ketchikan,” she told him.
“I know. Daniel told me.”
She couldn’t believe it.
“I forced it out of him when I talked to him yesterday,” Max admitted. “I couldn’t take not knowing anymore.”
“Why should you know?” Anger, icy and hot at the same time, rolled through her. “This is my job. I don’t know everything about your life.”
“You could. I’d gladly tell you anything you want to know if you’d ever ask.” He stared at her, his face sad. “I followed you to Australia, Callie. But you’d already left Sydney by the time I got there and I couldn’t track you after that.”
“You followed me?” Shock held her immobile for several seconds. “Why?” she finally demanded.
“Because there are things I need to know, stuff we have to talk about.” His lips tightened to a thin, angry line at the shake of her head. “What?”
“I don’t want to talk about the past, Max. Not ever again.” She turned away but his words stopped her.
“Well I do. And for as long as I’ve got you on my boat, we’re going to talk about it. I need to know the truth, Callie. And you’re going to tell it to me. When I’m satisfied I know everything, then and only then will I send you off with those divorce papers you’re so anxious to file.”
Despite the blazing September sun and the protection of the cabin, an icy-cold breeze tap-danced over Callie’s nerves.
Max couldn’t know the truth.
Not ever.
TWO
Max pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and stared at the coastline as his forefinger massaged his temple.
“Callie? Can you come here for a minute? Please?”
He wouldn’t blame her if she ignored him completely. He’d been a total jerk to act as he had, to make her feel as if he’d deliberately cornered her onboard to force her to explain.
Though it wasn’t an excuse, the way he’d been served those papers—the fact that he had been served them at all, made him see red. When she refused to talk to him he’d completely lost all perspective.
Callie responded, but not quickly. He watched her carefully store away the papers she’d been studying. She tucked them into her backpack and stowed it under the seat before she moved toward him.
Max realized how badly he’d fooled himself into believing that all Callie needed was time, that eventually she’d come home and they could start over. He’d never imagined, never let himself even consider that what she really wanted was to escape him.
“You bellowed?” Callie stood poised on the top step, curls dancing in the wind, eyes shadowed by the dark glasses she wore.
“Sorry. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve got to take a break. I’ve got a killer headache.” He pointed ahead. “There’s a little cove there that we can pull into. Is that okay with you?”
“I guess.” She pulled her glasses off to study him. Her blue eyes darkened with uncertainty. “Do you want me to take the wheel?”
“No.” A surge of frustration bubbled inside his heart when she glanced at her watch then frowned. The words burst out before he could check them. “Don’t worry. I won’t hold up your mission. I just need a break.”
“Fine. We’ll take a break. Do you want something to drink?”
“Coffee would be nice.” And some tape on my mouth to hold it shut so I won’t say anything else stupid.
“Fine. Coffee it is.” She turned, walked down the steps. A few minutes later he heard the rattle of the coffee pot. Every so often the rich aroma of percolating grounds caught on the breeze and filled his nostrils, hailing reminders of other sailing days when life with Callie had seemed good, right. Forever.
Long ago days.
Max edged his way into the bay, dropped anchor and climbed down from his perch. Callie had an umbrella set up over one of the loungers. Two steaming cups sat on the side table, one of them filled with a rich mocha-colored liquid.
Strong and creamy. At least she remembered that much.
“Thank you,” he murmured, sinking into the chaise. He took a sip of the smooth, creamed coffee, then let his head tip back against the chair as the pounding took over. He pretended he couldn’t feel her watching him.
“I suppose I should be able to take over the helm but I’ll be just as happy if I don’t have to. I guess that doesn’t make me a very good sailing partner.” The words died away.
After a moment she spoke again, her voice brimming with hesitancy and something else—shame?
“But then I never was a very good partner, period.”
He hated her saying that, hated that he’d obviously made her so unhappy.
“Callie?” Max reached out, grasped her wrist before she could move away. Though he could tell she didn’t like his grip, she remained still. “Could we please just let the past lie for a while? You don’t want to talk about what happened between us. Fine. I’ll try to abide by that. But could we at least make an attempt to enjoy this trip?”
“While I’m a prisoner, you mean?” She did slide her hand away then. Her jaw thrust forward in defiance, letting him know she wouldn’t forgive him so easily.
“Come on, Cal,” Max chided, almost smiling at her stubborn tip-tilted chin. “You’re not a prisoner and you know it. Anytime you ask, I’ll drop you off at the nearest town.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“I know.” He took another sip and decided it was long past time for the truth. “Those papers made me mad, Callie and I reacted badly. We don’t see each other for ages, I can’t get hold of you, don’t know whether you’re alive or dead, and suddenly some man I’ve never even seen before serves me with divorce papers in front of a crowd of people I’m trying to persuade to buy one of my designs.”
“So I embarrassed you with my bad timing. Again.” She winced. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t the timing, Callie.”
“Whatever it was, then. I’m still sorry. I’m always sorry. But it doesn’t seem to help much.” She flopped down opposite him, sipped her own coffee.
Max shook his head, sought for the right words.
“After the ba—when you left, you said you were taking another job because you had to get away, to think things over. Then you wrote you needed more time to get past…”
He swallowed hard, tiptoed around that subject.
“I agreed because I figured some space might be good for both of us. But I’ve hardly heard from you, I never know where you are. You certainly never once said anything about divorce in those cryptic little notes Finders Inc. forwarded to me.”
“Again—I’m sorry,” she whispered but she didn’t look at him.
Max was heartily sick of hearing that word, but at the moment there seemed little else either of them could say. He was sorry, too. He’d made his own mistakes, pushed when he should have just been there for her.
As he studied her, Max suddenly realized that this woman was not the Callie Merton he’d married. Body and mind were there. But her soul, the essence that made Callie who she was, now hid in a mask of protection that prevented him from reading her real emotions. She seemed as confident as always, but was it real or simply a front—something to keep him from getting too close?
Callie