His first reaction to the interior was one of relief, because the cabin was dark and musty smelling. There was absolutely nothing in it to speak of. An old antique bed, with the mattress rolled up, and the linens stored, a little table, a threadbare couch and a stone fireplace just like the one at Angel’s Rest.
And yet, the fact there was so little in here, seemed to highlight that there was something in here, unseen.
“Look,” she whispered, wandering over to one of the walls. “Oh, Joshua, look.”
Carved lovingly into the walls, were names. Mildred and Manny, April 3, 1947, Penelope and Alfred, June 9, 1932. Sometimes it was just the couple’s name, other times a heart and arrow surrounded it, sometimes a poem had been painstakingly cut out in the wall. It seemed each couple who had ever honeymooned here had left their mark on those walls.
It was hard not to be moved by the testament to love, to commitment. There really was nothing at all of material value in this cabin.
And yet there was something here so valuable it evaded being named: a history of people saying yes to the adventure of beginning a life together.
In this funny little cabin, it felt as if it was the only adventure that counted.
Cynicism would protect him from the light shining in her eyes. But what of his vow to let her have the day she wanted?
So, when they left the cabin he took her hand again, despite the fact he wanted to shove his into his pockets, defending against what had been in there. Strangely, holding her hand seemed to still the uncertainty in him.
The island was small. They walked around the whole thing in an hour. He soon forgot his discomfort in the cabin, and found himself making it about her with amazing ease. But then, that’s what being with her was like: easy and comfortable.
With just the faintest hint of sexual awareness, tingling, that added to rather than detracted from the experience of being together.
Finally they returned to the beach and opened Sally’s picnic basket. She had sent them hot dogs and buns, matches and fire starter.
They gathered wood, and he lit the fire, feeling that thing again, the shouldering of the ancient role: I will start the fire that will warm you.
Obviously, the corniness from the cabin was catching!
With hot dogs blackening on sticks over an open fire, and the magic of the cabin behind him, he found himself taking a tentative step forward, wanting to be more but also to know more. Soon she would go her own way, and he would go his. It made the exchange seem risk-free.
“Tell me why you’re content to raise other people’s children,” he said, touching the mustard at the edge of her mouth with his finger, putting that finger to his own lips, watching her eyes go as wide as if he had kissed her.
“I told you, it’s a job I love. I never feel as if I’m working.”
“But doesn’t that make you think you are ideally suited to be a mother yourself, of your own children?”
Maybe that was too personal, because Dannie blushed wildly, as if he had asked her to be the mother of his children!
He loved that blush! Before her, when was the last time he had even met a woman who still blushed?
“It’s because of the heartbreak,” he guessed softly, looking at the way she was focusing on her hot dog with sudden intensity. “Will you tell me about it?”
This was exactly the kind of question he never asked. But suddenly he really wanted to know. He knew about things you kept inside. You thought they’d gone away, when in fact they were eating you from the inside out.
“No,” she said. “You’re burning your hot dog.”
“That’s how I like them. What was his name?”
She glared at him. Her expression said, leave it. But her voice said, reluctantly, “Brent.”
“Just for the record, I’ve always hated that name. Let me guess. A college professor?”
“It’s not even an interesting story.”
“All stories are interesting.”
“Okay. You asked for it. Here is the full pathetic truth. Brent was a college professor. I was a student. He waited until I wasn’t in any of his classes to ask me out. We dated for a few months. I fell in love and thought he did, too. He had a trip planned to Europe, a year’s sabbatical from teaching, and he went.”
“He didn’t ask you to go?”
“He asked me to wait. He made me a promise.”
Joshua groaned.
“What are you making noises for?”
“If he loved you he would never, ever have gone to Europe without you.”
“Thank you. Where were you when I needed you? He promised he would come back, and we’d get married. I took the nanny position temporarily.”
“No ring, though,” Joshua guessed cynically.
“He gave me a locket!”
“With his own picture inside? Thought pretty highly of himself, did he?” It was the locket she’d worn when he first met her. That she’d put away. What did it mean that she had taken it off?
That it was a good time for her to have this conversation? He knew himself to be a very superficial man, the wrong person to be navigating the terrifying waters of a woman’s heartbreak. What moment of insanity had gripped him, encouraged her confidences? But now that she’d got started, it was like a dam bursting.
“At first he e-mailed every day, and I got a flood of postcards. It made me do really dumb things. I … I used all my savings and bought a wedding gown.”
Her face was screwing up. She blinked hard. Maybe wheedling this confession out of her hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
“It’s like something out of a fantasy,” she whispered. “Lace and silk.” She was choking now. “It was all a fantasy. Such a safe way to love somebody, from a distance, anticipating the next contact, but never having to deal with reality.
“Can I tell you something truly awful? Something I don’t even think I knew until just now? The longer he stayed away, the more elaborate and satisfying my fantasy love for him became.”
She was crying now. No mascara, thank God. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, and when that didn’t seem to give her any comfort, or him either, he threw caution to the wind, and his hot dog into the fire. He pulled her into his chest.
Felt her hair, finally.
It felt as he had known it would feel, like the most expensive and exquisite of silks.
It smelled of Hawaii, exotic and floral. This was why he was so undeserving of her trust: she was baring her soul, he was being intoxicated by the scent of her hair.
“Actually,” she sniffed, “Brent was the final crack in my romantic illusions. My parents had a terrible relationship, constant tension that spilled over into fighting. When I met Brent, I hoped there was something else, and there was, but it turned out to be even more painful. Oh, I hope I don’t sound pathetic. The I-had-a-bad-childhood kind of person.”
“Did you?” he asked, against his better judgment. Of course the smell of her hair and her soft curves pressed into his body made him feel as if he had no judgment at all, wiped out by sensory overload. And yet even for that, he registered her saying she’d had a bad childhood and he ached for her. There were things even a warrior could not hope to make right.
“Terrible,” she said with a defeated sigh. “Filled with fighting and uncertainty, making up that always filled us kids with such hope and never lasted. It was terrible.”
“Maybe