AT FIRST, AS she kept her gaze directed out the passenger window mile after mile, John worried that she was refusing to speak with him. However, like his upcoming confrontation with his father, he’d work that out when the time came.
She’d taken off her jacket upon getting into the car. He guessed she’d worn black for travel practicality, but wondered if she realized that that body-hugging turtleneck had him remembering exactly how her magnolia-white breasts had felt beneath his hands. She’d been his first and only lover. And if he had anything to say about it, she’d be his last.
Before Nepal, he’d never driven anywhere without cranking up the car radio or sticking a cassette in the dashboard player as soon as he turned the key. But now, as the rain that kept this part of the country so emerald green began to fall, he was content to just listen to the swish of the wipers, the hiss of the water beneath the tires, and savor being in the same space with his Sarah again.
They’d nearly reached the ferry landing when her stomach growled. “Excuse me,” she said, placing her hand over her stomach.
“Didn’t you eat on the plane?”
“It’s obvious you weren’t in coach,” she said. “I decided not to risk food poisoning from the mystery meal and settled for a candy bar I’d bought at a vending machine at LAX.” Then paused. “Though thinking about what you’re probably used to eating, that sounds horribly like Ugly American privilege.”
“The Nepalese are food insecure. It is, after all, one of the poorest places in the world. Which was why I wanted to go there. I thought my ag minor could help.”
“Did it?”
“I like to think so.” He wanted to tell her about Nepal, not just what he’d been doing, but how, in a way, he’d taken her with him. But this was not the time for that conversation. “We’ve made good time, so how about we stop and get something?” Before she had a chance to respond, he pulled into a red-and-white-striped roadside take-out joint. “You probably had your fill of fish and chips while in England, but it’s quick and we can eat it in the car in the ferry line.”
“That sounds wonderful.” She reached into her purse, which she’d put on the floor, and handed him a ten-dollar bill. “But I’m buying.”
Understanding pride, having a strong share of it himself, he didn’t argue.
Five minutes later, they were digging into the cardboard boxes of deep-fried cod, shrimp and fries while parked in the line of cars waiting for the ferry, which was currently chugging across the water toward them.
“These are delicious,” she said.
“One thing about the Pacific Northwest,” he said. “You’re never more than a few minutes away from seafood.” He wished she’d swoon over him the way she was the fried bay shrimp.
“What did you eat in Nepal?”
“Dal, bhat and tarkari, which is lentils, rice and curried vegetables, twice a day. When they’re put together, they’re dal bhat, which is the staple of their diet. In between the two big meals, people usually have snacks, like flatbread, beaten rice, curried vegetables or milked tea. The district I was assigned to was pretty evenly split between Hindus and Buddhists who’ve worked out ways to get along for centuries. Wealthier people might keep cows, which aren’t eaten, but are used for milk, plowing and manure.
“Goats are saved for special occasions. I ate it twice, and roasted on an open fire, it’s really good. The first time was at a festival where they honored the cows in a special ceremony. The second time was when the entire village surprised me with a going-away party. They closed the school and shops so everyone could attend, then walked with me to the crossroads, where I met the car that’d take me to the airport, which flew me to Kathmandu.”
“That’s wonderful that they cared so much. You must have made a serious impact.”
“They’re a warm people. Life was different, challenging and often flat-out strange, more so in the beginning. But I never, not once, felt unwelcome. They invited me not just into their homes, but their lives.”
“You’re hard not to like,” she surprised him by saying.
“Really?” he risked asking. “Do you think you could like me again? Someday?” Hopefully soon.
“I don’t know.” She dipped a fry into the small container of ketchup, then chewed while considering his question. “How about I’ll work on it?”
“It’s a start.” He took his napkin and brushed a corner of her lips, which had her pulling away. But not before they’d inadvertently parted. Just a bit. In memory, John hoped. He also hadn’t missed that golden blaze of sexual awareness in eyes the color of warm brandy. “You had a bit of ketchup right there.”
A frown furrowed her forehead beneath those bright curls tumbling over it. Curls he could too easily remember feeling like silk against his bare chest and thighs. “You could have told me.”
“I could have,” he agreed. “But then I couldn’t have touched you. Which I’ve been wanting to do since I first saw you in the terminal.”
“Even if I do decide that you’re not entirely detestable, whatever you’re thinking about is not going to happen,” she said as the ferry line began moving.
“What?” he asked, putting the car into gear and beginning to drive forward.
“You.” She pointed at him. Then at herself. “Me.” Then a wave that encompassed them both. “Us. At least not in the way we were.”
“That’s okay. We’re not the people we were. But here’s the thing, Sarah. I’m not giving up.”
That said, as the woman waving the cars into different lanes sent them to the left, John decided to concentrate on parking and let her ponder that for a while.
“We can stay in the car if you’re too tired to get out,” John suggested. He couldn’t decide if that was a good idea or not. Perhaps it might remind her of all those times they’d taken the ferry just to make out while everyone else went up the stairs to enjoy the view from the deck. That would be a positive. The negative was that those memories were already giving him a boner.
“I’d rather go up,” she said quickly. Too quickly. As if she didn’t want to remember.
“Sure.” As they joined the line climbing the stairs, John found that her ass, even hidden by that pleated skirt, was as fine as ever. Which brought back another memory of a pair of white short shorts she’d worn sailing. Because her parents wouldn’t have let her out of the house in them, she’d changed on his boat. Her long legs, lightly tanned by the brief Pacific Northwest sunshine, had been embedded in his mind for all time.
Did she have memories of him? Memories that had her wondering what might have been? There’d been a couple moments, like when their eyes had first met, and again when he’d wiped away that tiny speck of ketchup, he’d thought she might. But maybe that was wishful thinking.
“I think I’ll stay inside,” she said as they entered the cabin. “The rain seems to have stopped, so why don’t you go enjoy the view from the deck?”
Here’s your hat and there’s the door. She couldn’t have made herself any clearer. Despite the brief détente over fried fish, he seemed to be losing ground. Assuring himself that he wasn’t retreating, merely advancing in a different direction, John walked to the front of the cabin and out onto the deck.
The water churned beneath the white-and-green ferry as it headed out into the sound. The air was brisk and damp, and carried the scent of salt and distant firs, which he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much until he was nearly home.
Honeymoon Harbor had originally been named Port Vancouver, in honor of Captain George Vancouver, who was the first to sail up the Strait of Juan de Fuca from the Pacific Ocean into Puget Sound. Pages from the captain’s ship logs, housed under glass in the town historical museum, revealed his awe at the towering snowcapped mountains formed by an oceanic uplift forty million years ago, deep green rain forests that come nearly to the water’s edge, crystal rivers, tumbling waterfalls, both sandy and rocky beaches, and sapphire water studded with emerald islands.
By the late 1800s the town had grown into a well-known, active seaport, banking on a rich future. In the Mannion family’s case, literally banking, given that one of John’s ancestors had established the bank currently run by his father. A bank he was expected to eventually take over, continuing the tradition.
A building boom had gifted Port Vancouver with an abundance of ornate Victorian homes built by the Harper family, perched atop the bluff overlooking the bay. A town built and populated by dreamers, its port frequented by vessels from faraway places, shipping and timber had initially built the economy. Unfortunately, too much of the bustling port had been constructed on the shifting sands of speculation that it would become a major city, perhaps even become the state capital. Those dreams were dashed when the Northern Pacific railroad, hampered by a depression that had gripped the nation, couldn’t afford to connect the town to the eastern Puget Sound cities of Tacoma and Seattle.
Despite the boom being over by the late 1890s, with population declining, those dreamers who’d remained were handed a stroke of luck in 1910 when the king and queen of Montacroix, a small, wealthy Mediterranean monarchy, added the town to their honeymoon tour of America. The newlyweds had learned of this lush green region from the king’s friend Theodore Roosevelt, who’d set aside national land for the Mount Olympus National Monument.
As a way of honoring the royals, and hoping that the national and European press following them across the country might bring more attention to the town, residents voted nearly unanimously to change the name to Honeymoon Harbor. One naysayer, Nathaniel Harper, had refused to go along with the plan, which, as local lore had it, was the beginning of the generations-long Mannion-Harper acrimony. And the reason that Jerome and Harriet Harper had attempted to keep their daughter out of the hands of John Mannion, including convincing her to attend a college across the country. Which had resulted in John’s working two jobs all through UW to afford to fly to Massachusetts to be with her.
His last trip, before things had blown up, had been shortly before both their graduations. He’d decided that, having reached adulthood, there was no reason to give a damn what anyone thought about their relationship. He loved her. She loved him. Anything else was irrelevant and could be worked out. He’d even come with a ring in a black velvet box.
The weekend had begun with her meeting him at Boston’s Logan Airport, after which they’d checked into the room he’d booked at the Parker House. The hotel was way over his budget, but he’d saved up for months to make the occasion special. He’d hoped Sarah would be blown away by staying in the same place writers Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, Dickens and Mark Twain had hung out. Personally, he’d been more impressed by the fact that Babe Ruth and Ted Williams had also wined and dined at Parker House.
Having been apart for months, their lovemaking had been hot and fast and involved a lot of ripping off of clothing. The second time had been more leisurely, as they became reacquainted with each other’s erogenous zones. Like the way just her tongue in his navel could have him on the verge of release, and that cord at the back of her left knee, when nipped, could nearly bring her to orgasm.
They’d left the bed long enough to dress in their best clothes—for her, a pink dress with double skinny straps topped by bows, which she’d told him was a knockoff of a dress Princess Di wore, and for him, an inexpensive navy blue suit with white shirt and red tie—to go downstairs to the dining room. Their dinner had cost nearly as much as the room, but as they’d taken their Boston cream pie, which the menu stated was invented in the hotel’s kitchen, up to their room for a late dessert, John hadn’t given a damn if he ended up maxing out his credit card. Because she was worth every dime.
Their third round of lovemaking had been the closest thing to heaven John had ever known. Before or since. Nepal was a stunningly beautiful country, and he could understand why so many visitors called it the closest thing to heaven on earth, but they’d never made love with Sarah Harper.
He should have just proposed then. A fact Mike had rubbed in more than once. But Sarah had a romantic soul. She not only studied and read romance novels for pleasure, she believed in love and the ideal of a happily-ever-after. Which was why he decided popping the question while they were both lying there naked and sweaty wasn’t the grand romantic moment he wanted her to remember.
So he’d waited until the next day. When he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. Or, as Mike had told him afterward, seriously screwed the pooch.