CHAPTER 7
The contraption was green, a cross between a golf cart and a pickup truck. Maris learned later that it was called a Gator, but she had never seen one before Parker Evans nodded her toward the one parked outside Terry's Bar and Grill. He invited her to get in.
Still reeling from the shock of finding him in a wheelchair, she did as he requested and climbed into the passenger seat. She kept her head averted as he used his arms to lift himself onto the driver's seat. Then he leaned down, folded his chair, and swung it up into the shallow trailer.
The Gator had been reconfigured for him.
The brake and accelerator were hand-controlled. He handled the vehicle with an ease that comes from practice as he steered it away from Terry's and headed it toward the dock.
"I can take you only as far as the ramp," he said. "It's too steep for my chair. I'd make it down okay, but I might have trouble stopping and would wind up in the drink. Which you probably think I deserve."
###She said nothing. ###################165
"But even if I didn't go hurtling into the sound, I couldn't get back up the ramp on my own."
Maris was at a complete loss. "Ramp?"
"Down to the dock. Where you left your boat."
"I don't have a boat. I paid someone to bring me over."
"He didn't wait to ferry you back?"
"I didn't know how long I'd be here. I told him I'd call."
He brought the Gator to a stop, looking displeased that he wasn't going to shake her as soon as he thought. His shirt was chambray like Mike's, except that the sleeves had been cut out of Parker Evans's, revealing muscled arms that compensated for the limitations his legs imposed. Those muscles went to work as he pulled the steering wheel into a sharp turn.
"Shouldn't take a boat long to get over here.
Terry will call for one. You got the number?"
"Couldn't we talk for a while, Mr.
Evans?"
He braked the Gator again. "About what?"
"Look, be obtuse on somebody else's time. I've come a very long way--was
"Without an invitation."
"You invited me when you sent me that prologue."
He registered mild surprise over her
snappishness and raised his hands in mock surrender.
She took a moment to collect herself, then continued in a more conciliatory tone. "It's been a very long day for me. I'm tired. A hot bath and cool sheets sound wonderful. But I'm here, so I'd like to make this trip worth my time, trouble, and expense by having a civil conversation with you before I leave."
He folded his arms across his chest in what she supposed could be viewed as a civil gesture.
But it also looked smart-alecky, and that, she thought, was probably closer to his intention.
Doggedly she continued. "You sent me your work.
You meant for me to read it or you wouldn't have sent it. Despite your claims to the contrary, you want this book to be published. I publish books.
We could work together. You don't even have to meet me halfway. I'll go three-quarters of the way.
In fact, I believe I already have by coming here. So
#could we please have that conversation?" #########167
Despite his arrogance, he had a disconcerting way of staring. His expression was inscrutable, giving no indication of what he was thinking. He could have been seriously weighing her arguments or planning to toss her out of the Gator and letting her swim back to the mainland. One was as viable a guess as the other. Or he might have been thinking neither.
Taking his silence as permission for her to continue, she did. "I know it's rather late in the day to be talking shop, but I promise not to take up too much of your time. Mike said he would--was
"I know what Mike said. He called me at Terry's after you left the house. He's acting like a complete fool."
"He didn't strike me as a fool.
Anything but."
"Ordinarily, no. Ordinarily he's levelheaded, calm, cool, and collected, the voice of reason, a goddamn pillar of
sensibility. But you've got him in a dither.
He's tearing around straightening up the house, fixing supper, acting like an old maid about to receive her first gentleman caller." His eyes were shadowed, but she could tell they were moving over her.
"You m/'ve laid on the charm double thick."
"I did nothing of the sort. Mike is just a nice man."
He barked a harsh laugh. "Unlike me."
"I didn't say that."
"Well," he drawled, "you just as well have, because it's true. I'm not at all nice."
"I'm sure you could be if you wanted to."
"See, that's the kicker. I don't want to."
Then, before she could prepare herself, he reached across the space separating them, hooked his hand around the back of her neck, and yanked her forward, bringing her mouth up to his. It was more an assault than a kiss. Hard, grinding, insistent. His tongue stabbed at the seam between her lips until it forced them apart.
Making angry sounds of protest, she pushed against his chest, but he didn't stop. Instead he continued to plumb her mouth forcefully as his lips twisted upon hers. Imperceptibly the thrusts became slower and gentler, more exploratory than invasive. His thumb stroked the underside of her chin, her cheek, and very near the corner of her
#lips. Her anger shifted into distress. ###169
When he ended the deep kiss, he rubbed his lips against hers lightly before breaking contact with them, and even then they remained close, merely a breath apart. Only after he let his hands fall away did he pull back.
Maris turned her head away. She stared out across the water of the sound. It was relatively calm compared to the choppy currents circulating through her bloodstream. The lights on the shore of the mainland seemed very distant. Much farther than before.
Now a world away. She felt strangely
disconnected, as though that narrow body of water had widened into a gulf that couldn't be spanned.
Somewhere out on the sound a boat's horn bleated a warning. Inside Terry's, the boom box had been restarted and was playing a wailing song about a love gone wrong. Closer, she could hear the gentle slap of the water against the rocky beach at the bottom of the steep ramp that Parker Evans was unable to navigate in his wheelchair.
"It won't work, Mr. Evans," she said quietly. "I'm not going to flee in terror of you."
She turned then to look at him and was surprised by the absence of smugness in his expression. He didn't look contrite or apologetic, either, but he wasn't wearing the triumphant sneer she had expected. He was staring at her in the same disconcerting, inscrutable way as before.
"I ignored the vulgarities inside Terry's, just like I'm going to ignore that kiss.
Because I know why you subjected me to that," she said, hitching her head in the direction of the bar, "and I know why you kissed me."
"You do."
"I'm calling your bluff."
"Bluff."
"You kissed me to scare me off."
"All right."
"Àll right`?"
"You can think that if you want to." He held her gaze for several seconds, then put the Gator into forward motion. "Did Mike happen to mention what's for supper?"
It turned out to be smoked ham sandwiches served in a casual room on the back of the house. Mike referred to it as the solarium.
###"Fancy name for a glassed-in ########171
porch," Parker commented wryly.
"It was a porch," Mike explained to Maris as he spooned potato salad onto her
plate. "You can't tell, now that it's dark, but this room overlooks the beach. Parker decided to enclose it with sliding glass panels that give us the option of closing it completely or opening it up. Now he can write in here during any kind of weather."
Maris had pretended not to notice the computer setup in one corner of the room, which was otherwise furnished with rattan pieces. Nods toward decoration were limited. A few throw pillows.
One struggling potted plant that looked doomed to lose the struggle. That was all. It was a bachelor's room. A writer's retreat.
Stacked around the computer terminal, on the stone tile floor, in shelves, on every conceivable surface, were books. Reference books, literary novels and classics, mysteries, romances, science fiction, horror, westerns, autobiographies, biographies, poetry, childrens' books, histories, self-help, and inspirational. Every kind of book imaginable, some in hardcover, some in paperback, some of which, she was pleased to see, bore the Matherly Press imprint on the spine. Gauging by the worn appearance of the books, his library wasn't just for show. Parker Evans was well read.
"Whatever you call this room, I like it," she told them. "It's a wonderful place to read.
And write." She gave Parker a sly glance, which he chose not to see as he spread mustard onto his sandwich.
After serving them, Mike sat down across the table from her, confirming what she had guessed, that he was as much a friend and companion as he was a valet--the need for which was now sadly apparent. "You went to far too much trouble, Mike."
"No trouble. We planned to have a late supper anyway, and I'm awfully glad to have a guest in the house. Parker isn't always the best company. In fact, when he's writing, he sometimes doesn't speak for hours, and when he does, he can be a real grouch."
Parker shot him a sour glance. "And you're a perpetual pain in the ass."
Maris laughed. Despite the swapped
insults, the affection between them was obvious.
#"I've experienced Mr. Evans's ####173
grouchiness firsthand, Mike, but I don't take it personally. I'm used to it. I work with writers every day. A gloomy bunch, for the most part. I probably don't catch the verbal abuse their agents do, but I get my share."
Mike nodded sagely. "Artistic
temperament."
"Precisely. I'm not complaining. Based on my experience--and confirmed only yesterday by my father--bad temperament is often an indicator of good writing."
She blotted her lips with her napkin and was shocked to realize that they were still tender. She'd checked her reflection in the framed mirror above the basin when Mike kindly directed her into the powder room shortly after she and Parker arrived.
The only visible trace of the kiss was a slight abrasion above her upper lip. She'd applied powder to the whisker burn and then quickly switched off the light, afraid she would see in her eyes even more telling evidence of the kiss, which she had resolved to deny--a resolve jeopardized by whisker burns and such.
She and the author had spoken little on the drive to his home. She had kept her eyes trained on the twin beams the Gator's headlights cast onto the road. The darkness within the forest made it easier to ignore, although at one point she couldn't resist taking one furtive glance into the trees.
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
"What?"
"Fireflies. There in the woods."
"Lightning bugs," he said. "Down here, we call them lightning bugs."
"I haven't seen any in years."
"Insecticides."
"Unfortunately. When I was little, I used to see them around our house in the country. I'd catch them and put them in a glass and keep it on my nightstand overnight."
"I did that, too."
She turned to him in surprise. "You did?"
"Yeah. The kids in my neighborhood used to hold contests to see who could catch the most."
So he had been able to chase fireflies. He hadn't always been confined to a wheelchair.
Naturally she was curious about the nature of his disability, but she was too polite to ask.
He wasn't the first person she had known who was
#similarly incapacitated. She had #####175
enormous respect for those individuals who had made the best of their misfortune. Some were the most optimistic, upbeat people she had ever had the pleasure of knowing. What they lacked in physical stamina and strength, they made up for with courage and spiritual fortitude.
Parker Evans seemed to have the raw power of physically challenged triathletes who competed in the Ironman competitions, men and women who achieved Herculean feats with the strength of their arms
--and willpower--alone. Frequently they were athletes or otherwise active young people whose pursuits had been ended in one fateful second, victims of tragic accidents. She wondered what had happened to Parker to change his life so dramatically.
She glanced across the table at him now. He was picking at the bread crust on his plate but, as though feeling her eyes, raised his and caught her looking at him. He gave her a frank
return stare.
He was undeniably attractive, although years of pain or unhappiness or disillusionment or a combination thereof had etched lines into his face, making him appear older than he probably was. His rare smiles were tainted by bitterness.
His brown hair was thick and threaded with gray.
Grooming it would probably be an afterthought. He was wearing two days' worth of stubble.
His eyes weren't a definitive color like blue or green or brown. They were best described as hazel and would have been unremarkable except for the occasional amber spots that flecked the irises. That unique feature, coupled with his amazing ability to remain focused on something for an incredible length of time, made his eyes compelling.
Staring at her now, he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. His eyes were issuing a challenge. _Go _ahead, they seemed to say.
__You're dying to know why I'm in this chair, so why don't you just _ask?
She wasn't going to take up that dare. Not now. Not until she knew him better, or not until she got at least a verbal commitment from him that he would finish his book.
"Have you written any more, Mr. Evans?"
"Want a refill of iced tea?"
"No, thank you."
###"Another sandwich?" ################177
"I'm full, thank you. Have you got more for me to read?"
He looked pointedly at Mike, who took the hint. "Excuse me. I need to put some things away." The older man got up and left the room through a connecting door.
As soon as Mike was out of earshot, he said,
"You're a very determined woman."
"Thank you."
"I didn't mean it as a compliment."
"I know."
He backed away from the table, turned his chair, and stared through the glass as though he could penetrate the darkness and see the surf. Maris gave him this time. If he was balancing the pros and cons of a decision, she wanted to say nothing that might tip the scales against her.
After a time, he turned back. "Do you really think it's that good?"
"Do you think I would travel to a remote spot on the map if I'd had a lukewarm response to your writing?"
"In plain English, please."
"Yes, Mr. Evans, it's good."
He looked at her with exasperation. "My tongue has been inside your mouth, which makes thèMr. Evansà bit ridiculous, don't you think? My name is Parker. Call me that, okay?"
She swallowed but refused to look away from him. "Okay. And you can call me Maris."
"I planned to."
He seemed determined to provoke her one way or the other, but she was equally determined not to let him. "Where are you from, Parker? Originally. The South, I know that."
"Shoot! What gave me away?" He spoke in an exaggeration of his natural drawl.
She laughed softly. "Well, there is the accent, but Yankees have a hard time distinguishing regional nuances. For instance, Texans don't sound like South Carolinians, do they?"
"Texans don't sound like anybody."
Again she laughed. "Where did your particular accent originate?"
"Why is that relevant?"
"Some of the words you use ..."
"Like?"
"Likèfixingìnstead of preparing or cooking
#supper. And the word `supperìtself, ######179
instead of dinner. `Dither,` `gentleman caller,` things like that."
"I guess those colloquialisms crop up now and then in my speech. I try and keep them out of my writing."
"Don't. They season it."
"A little seasoning goes a long way."
She acknowledged his point with a nod. "I see you've thought about it. You're conscientious about using idioms in your prose." Propping her arms on the table, she leaned forward. "You put a lot of thought and hard work into your writing, Parker. Why are you reluctant to have it read?"
He had the answer ready. "Fear of failure."
"Understood. Creative people are cursed with self-doubt. It's the nature of the beast." She gestured toward his bookcase. "But aren't we glad that most don't submit to it?"
"Many do, though, don't they?" he argued.
"They couldn't stand the ridicule of critics, or the fickle whims of the buying public, or the pressure of living up to expectations, or the darkest goddamn doubt of all, which is that they had no talent to begin with and that exposure of that reality is just around the corner. How many writers can you name who drank themselves to death? Or made it quick and blew their brains out?"
She thought the question over, then said, "Tell me, Parker, does that require more courage, or less, than becoming a recluse on an
out-of-the-way island?"
The shot struck home. For several long moments he seemed to wage a battle with himself, then he whipped his chair about and rolled it to the worktable. He booted up the computer, saying to her over his shoulder, "This means nothing, understand?"
She nodded agreement, although she was certain that they were both lying. Whatever _this was, it meant _something.
"I've written a first chapter."
"In addition to the prologue, you mean."
"Correct. If you want to read it, I'll let you. With the understanding that I'm under no obligation to you. Whether you like the material or not, I'm making you no promises."
Maris moved beside his chair and together they watched the pages as they rolled out of the printer. "Does the first chapter start where the prologue left off?"
###"No. The scene in the prologue #####181
comes toward the end of the story."
"So you go back and bring the reader forward?"
"Right."
"How far back?"
"Three years. Chapter one takes place when Roark and Todd are college
roommates."
"Roark and Todd," she repeated, trying out the character names and deciding she liked them. "Which is which?"
"What do you mean?"
"Which one do we see in Hatch Walker's office in the prologue? Who crashes the boat and who has gone overboard?"
This time his grin was free of bitterness.
"You're not going to tell me, are you?" she asked.
"If I did, what would be the point of your reading the rest of the book?"
"The rest? So you _are planning to finish it?"
His grin slipped a fraction. "Let's see what you think first."
"I can't wait."
"Don't get too excited, Maris. It's only one chapter."
He removed the pages from the tray on the printer, then tapped the edges on the table to even them up before passing them to her. She grasped them, but he continued to hold them. She looked at him expectantly.
"When I kissed you? It didn't have a damn thing to do with trying to scare you off."
Before she could respond, he released the pages and shouted for Mike. "Bring her a phone so she can call for a boat," he told the older man when he appeared in the doorway. "It'll take about as long for it to get to the island as it takes for you to get her back to the landing. Should time out just right."
"But it's after eleven o'clock," Mike exclaimed. "You can't send her back at this time of night."
Maris, flustered, said a little too quickly and loudly, "It's fine, Mike. I'll be fine."
"I won't hear of it." Ignoring Parker's warning look, Mike declared, "You'll stay here tonight. In the guest house."