Someday Soon Page 11

  Clutching his shoulders, Cammie fought back tiny, shocked tears. But then his kisses rained over her neck and face, and she clung to him tightly, a dim part of herself realizing that her body was responding to his rhythmic, loving thrusts in spite of herself. With a knowledge and eagerness she found both astounding and slightly appalling and dangerously thrilling, all at the same time, she let herself feel the ecstasy of the primeval dance.

  It was over much, much too soon. Cammie had just found her own rhythm when Ty suddenly stiffened and groaned, flooding her with his male essence, before collapsing against her in total oblivion.

  She lay there, counting her heartbeats, or maybe his, since their pulses thundered together as one. Burying her face against his warm neck, she mouthed, “I love you” silently into his flesh. Tears closed her throat. The bittersweet knowledge that this would not be what he needed and desired when they both awakened kept her anxious for long, lonely hours.

  At length, and with an effort, she squirmed from beneath his weight, clutching up her scattered clothes, momentarily frozen at the sight of her stockings mixed up with his forgotten robe, an intimate union with poignant echoes of what she’d just experienced.

  Turning back, she gazed lovingly down at him, but he was lost to the deep coma of too much alcohol. Running fingers down his cheek, she was relieved to see him flinch. Whatever amount of liquor he’d ingested, it wasn’t enough to do serious harm.

  “Ty?” she whispered into the darkness.

  “Gayle?” he answered back, sounding frighteningly sober.

  Gayle?

  She wanted to scream with betrayal, but instead her rational mind took over. It was a dream. Nothing.

  And when his breathing returned to the rhythm of deep sleep, she knew he wouldn’t remember calling out “Gayle” in the wee hours of the morning.

  He might not remember any of it.

  Regret rushed over her in a cold wave. She shouldn’t have allowed it. She shouldn’t have? What could she have been thinking? Good Lord, she’d practically jumped on him and begged him to make love to her!

  Cammie raced from the room, yanking on her clothes with such hurried disregard that she heard her panties rip, and there was a definite sound of threads break-ing when she yanked her chenille navy turtleneck sweater over her head.

  By the time she was in her car she was half sobbing, furious with herself. Whatever was she going to do? What could she say to him? Oh, Lord, it was such a disaster, and she was embarrassed to the tips of her toes.

  But, she thought, grinding her teeth together, I wouldn’t change a minute of it!

  Reaching home, she locked herself in her apartment and sat up all night thinking about Tyler Stovall. She loved him; she was in no doubt. She would not have been so reckless, so heedless and rash if it weren’t for loving him. That, she understood completely.

  And she thought of her mother, how Claire had usually turned a blind eye to each and every one of Sam’s conquests because she couldn’t bear to face the truth. Now, Claire was suffering for her weak decision, and she, Cammie, had just made another fatal mistake with Sam’s son! Could Ty be much different from his father? Especially in an industry where “sleeping one’s way to the top” was so common that it was joked about among starlets seeking to make their way. Ty would be an attractive name on anyone’s dance card. What chance did she, little sister Cammie, have of him ever taking her seriously or giving her his heart?

  None. And she knew for a fact that she wouldn’t be able to settle for less.

  In a haze of self-doubt and misery, she waited for him to call and discuss what had occurred between them. When he didn’t, she grew angry with him. It was easier than blaming herself so much, but then sanity prevailed and she knew the buck stopped with her: Camilla Pendleton Stovall.

  It was no one’s fault but her own.

  Did he even remember? she asked herself. Could he? A part of her hoped it was all a dim dream, an imagined night of sensual images; another part wanted him to know it was her and to call her and tell her he loved her!

  And then he was gone. Kaput. Off the map. Samuel Stovall never visited Claire and she slowly wasted away. Cammie met Paul and ended up marrying a man she didn’t truly love. Oh, at the time, she fooled herself into believing he was the man for her, but now, with the benefit of hindsight, she could honestly say she’d lied to herself about her feelings because she’d been on the run from her love for Ty. She’d wanted to believe her infatuation with him was over, that she didn’t care about him a lick. She wanted to outrun her past mistakes, as if anyone ever truly could.

  So, here she was, on a fool’s errand if there ever was one, and she knew for a fact, though it was difficult to admit her failings to herself, that she was still susceptible, still a little in love, still a little hopeful that something, something wonderful, might happen between them.

  Still hoping for that someday, Cammie?

  Closing her eyes, she inhaled a long, healing breath. “Okey dokey,” she muttered, turning the nose of the small car in the general direction of east and silently invoking help from the heavens to guide her and ease her way.

  With a grunt of exertion, Tyler slammed the heavy box down on the hardwood floor, convinced it was full of cement instead of books. It had been a hell of a day. Packing was a necessary evil that garnered all his energy and attention and frustrated him in the bargain. He didn’t want to leave, and he was thoroughly annoyed that he was being forced to.

  Could Bruce be wrong? he asked himself for the thousandth time that day. Break-ins occurred all the time. Thievery was as common as California sunshine, and there was no reason to panic just because Bruce’s abode had suddenly been selected by some enterprising small-time crook.

  Except nothing was stolen.

  Strapping thick tape around the box, Tyler glanced up to view his efforts. It hardly looked as if he’d begun! A neat stack of eight boxes stood to one side of the fireplace, partially blocking the view of the bay, and tiny shreds of cardboard and packing paper dusted the slate floor, the only other evidence of this all-afternoon chore.

  He flopped onto the sofa, ran his hands through his overly long hair, scratched the hated beard one more time, and sighed deeply, a reflection of his all-encompassing weariness. He just didn’t want to go.

  Glancing toward the loft, Ty considered e-mailing Bruce back and learning a little more. He didn’t buy into his friend’s paranoia.

  With a feeling of facing his destiny, Ty picked up the telephone and dialed a number from long-term memory. Three rings in, a harsh, familiar male voice answered impatiently. “Hello?”

  Samuel Stovall. Ty hadn’t spoken to him in ten years.

  Ty opened his mouth to speak, but then a vision crossed his mind: a woman’s body broken and bleeding, eyes open blankly, limbs akimbo in the total abandonment of death.

  Slamming down the phone, he was shocked and angered to realize he was trembling all over. It wasn’t even a real memory. Just something his overactive imagination conjured up whenever he thought about Gayle.

  And you only think about her when you think about him!

  Ty jumped to his feet, his jaw set so hard that his teeth and muscles ached. To hell with it. Tonight he wasn’t willing to sit around and bemoan his fate. He wanted action. He wanted excitement.

  He wanted a woman.

  Dialing the phone, this time with the aid of a small address book whose pages were pitifully empty, Ty put a call into his sometime girlfriend, Missy.

  “Hi, there,” a pleasantly seductive voice answered. “You’ve reached Missy and Janine. Don’t forget to leave your number or we won’t be able to call you back. ‘Bye now.”

  Ty gently replaced the receiver, inordinately relieved that Missy hadn’t been home. Her voice on the answering machine had chilled the urge to be with a woman—at least that woman, he admitted with painful self-honesty. He really wasn’t attracted to her and seeing her for his own selfish interests would only complicate matters and m
ake them worse, even if it would have been their last hurrah together.

  Missy Grant. Sweet, simple, and nice, but without a goal beyond filling out the TV Guide crossword and making her deadbeat ex-husband pay child support. She’d become entranced with Ty’s resemblance to, “that actor guy who disappeared. Sam Stovall’s son. Remember him?” Ty had initially avoided her, afraid she would make the connection, but had subsequently learned he had no fear of that with Missy. She would never believe she’d met the genuine article.

  Why he’d started seeing her was self-evident: loneliness. And he’d kept on for quite some time, desperately needing her uncomplicated lovemaking. But her lack of ambition and education had eventually taken their toll, and he’d been unable to connect with her on any other level than plain old sex.

  Their relationship, such as it was, dwindled to an occasional restless night together. Even that had disappeared over the past year.

  Now, with her voice still echoing in his ears, Ty mentally kicked himself for his own neediness.

  The telephone rang almost beneath his hand. Fearing the previous call he’d made had somehow been found out even though his number was blocked, Ty picked up the receiver with trepidation.

  “Hello?”

  “Jerry!” a voice boomed. “Come on down to the rodeo. Got a longneck with your name on it, buddy. We’re all bored to death. Come on.”

  Ty swallowed. Jerry. His alias hit him with almost physical force. How ironic. A longneck beer with his name on it? He almost laughed aloud.

  “Hey, Corky. Can’t make it tonight.” Maybe not ever again, he thought with a pang.

  “Ahhh, come on. I know what you’re thinking, but you’re safe with us, buddy. Missy isn’t even working tonight.”

  That his few friends knew of his disinterest in the waitress made Ty feel like a true heel. He couldn’t wait to get off the phone, and he growled out some excuses over Corky’s rising protests, slamming down the receiver again and yanking the cord from the wall.

  He hated himself. He flat out hated himself.

  Ten seconds of churning indecision and he made a dangerously reckless choice. Bourbon. Straight. No longneck beer or prissy glass of wine. He wanted to be drunk. Dead drunk.

  Pouring himself a healthy dose, he prayed for sweet oblivion. The packing and moving could wait one more day. Tonight, he wanted a different kind of escape.

  So, she would find Tyler Stovall just strolling down the street, huh? No problem. It was only pitch dark and the place looked as if it had rolled up and sneaked away when no one was looking. Down the way Cammie could make out a smattering of lights—a couple of restaurants and quaint pubs along the waterfront. The streets, however, were practically deserted.

  Sitting inside her rental, she shivered. April might be here, but winter hadn’t lost its grip on this little corner of the world yet. As she climbed from the driver’s seat, a car passed her, a Buick or a Chevy, late-model sedan.

  She barely flicked it a look. Ty had owned a black Land Rover in his previous life. She couldn’t believe he’d changed that much!

  Hunching her shoulders against the cold, she walked into a shingled building whose sign, an oval wooden plaque which sported a painted picture of the black-and-white Canada goose, greeted her with the inscription: Welcome Friends and Strangers Alike. The Goosedown Inn.

  The lobby floor was plank boards dotted with scattered braided rugs in bright colors. Tiny wooden Canada geese with red ribbons around their necks covered the windowsills and three-legged tables. They were for sale with a vengeance, but beneath the fluted lights, themselves replicas from a bygone era, the geese sparkled with familiar, country luster, and Cammie smiled at them happily, as if they were friends.

  “Eight ninety-five,” the lady at the desk beneath the wooden stairway said with a smile. “Lovely, aren’t they?”

  “Absolutely.” Cammie picked up the nearest and paid for her purchase, feeling slightly sheepish for being such a tourist.

  “They spend a lot of time on your side of the border, don’t they? Heading south for the winter and all that. They’re coming back now, but in November they fill the skies on their way to the U.S.”

  “A mass exodus, huh?”

  She gazed at Cammie, seeming a bit confused. “I guess so.”

  “I mean they’re all leaving at the same time.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. Were you looking for dinner or a room?”

  “Maybe both.” Cammie glanced through the wide archway that led to the dining room. “I’m—kind of looking—waiting for a friend,” she stumbled, not sure how to continue. “A male friend.”

  “Would he be alone?” she asked. “We’ve had a few couples tonight, but that’s it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think he’d be alone. But I’m not sure he even got the message to meet here,” she lied. She hated tricking the unsuspecting woman who was genuinely friendly and helpful.

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Ummm…” Cammie went blank. “He’s about six feet tall,” she said slowly. “Dark hair. Gray eyes. Thirty-six years old. Gee, I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

  “Is he a tourist, or a local?”

  “A local, I think. Actually, he looks a lot like that actor,” she added, wondering if she were stepping over the line. “Tyler Stovall.”

  “Oh, you know Jerry?” The woman smiled at Cammie as if their friendship had hit a new level.

  “Jerry…yeah…” Cammie murmured uncertainly.

  “Good gravy, he hasn’t been at the inn for quite a long while. Kinda keeps to himself, y’know.”

  Cammie’s heart leapt erratically, clamoring wildly inside her chest. Hope was making her crazy. “He’s kind of a loner,” she agreed.

  “I’m surprised he even has friends. I mean, don’t take this wrong or anything, but he can be a real piece of work, y’know what I mean.”

  “I think so.”

  “So short with people. ‘Course when he smiles, all’s forgiven. He’s sure got Missy Grant in a state. Oh, you know about her, don’t ya?” Cammie could only shake her head. “I’m sorry. You aren’t—that way—are you?”

  “No, no.” Cammie’s pulse returned to near normal levels. Unwelcome news, but expected, if she’d thought about it.

  “Oh, good. Not that they’re seeing each other right now. I mean, she’d like to still be close, but he’s difficult that way. Right?” She gazed at Cammie, trying to figure out if she’d revealed too much.

  “Right,” Cammie agreed. “How long has he been here exactly? In Bayrock?”

  “Oh, years and years. Maybe ten or fifteen? I don’t know. You want to call him? He might not have remembered he was supposed to meet you.”

  “I—don’t have his number,” she admitted. “You don’t happen to know his address, do you?”

  “Why, he’s right down the street. But if you’re wanting dinner, you’d better come right back. The kitchen’s about to close.”

  “Right down the street?”

  “The cabin at the end, facing the bay. It’s got a loft and a gate at the walkway. You can’t miss it. Right past that old brick brewery that’s been redone.”

  It was all Cammie could do to keep making pleasantries with the woman after she’d learned what she’d come to find out. And though there was a chance this “Jerry” person wasn’t Tyler, it sure sounded like the same person.

  She left her car parked in front of the Goosedown Inn, tucked her woolen jacket closer to her body against a chilly wind and strolled in the general direction of “Jerry’s” cabin. Her teeth chattered and her pulse raced along in anticipation.

  It was crazy. She was crazy.

  About four blocks later, she stood outside a shingled cabin with white paned windows whose back view consisted of the bay that stretched toward Washington State. She could actually see straight through a round, porthole-type window through a bank of rectangular panes and the dark water, glimmering beneath the lights of Bayrock, beyond.r />
  Her view of the interior of the cabin itself was limited, however, and Cammie began to feel self-conscious as she craned her neck for a look inside. Was it really Ty’s cabin? She felt ridiculous!

  Pushing open the short white, wrought-iron gate which connected two ends of an equally short fence in matching natural cedar shingles, Cammie walked up a pebbled path to the front steps. There was a brass knocker, ravaged by the wind and weather to a beaten, greenish hue, in the center of the door. The round, porthole window just above eye level greeted her, and Cammie rose on tiptoes, trying vainly for just a glimpse of Tyler Stovall.

  Holding her breath, she banged the brass knocker down, once, twice, three times. She waited what seemed an eternity, jumping up and down to keep warm, her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her red wool peacoat.

  Nothing.

  With a sigh, she tried again, feeling suddenly overcome with weariness from the emotional trauma of this odyssey. When there was no answer once more, she twisted the doorknob. To her surprise it opened beneath her touch, the door swinging slowly inward as if unseen hosts were beckoning her to enter.

  Déjà vu…

  Creeped out, Cammie stood on the threshold. “Hello?” she called, grimacing a bit at her boldness. “Anyone home?”

  She wouldn’t dare step inside without an invitation, would she? She wasn’t completely without manners! What if it were someone else’s place and the woman at the Goosedown Inn had misinformed her? What if she barged in on a total stranger?

  But the place seemed deserted. Leaning inside, she gave it a quick glance around, impressed by the stone fireplace and fir beams and plank floors. Time passed and she feared the owner would feel the draft from the open door and come barreling down on her in a fury.

  I’ll look for him tomorrow, her cowardly conscience decided, and with that she stepped over the threshold to grab the knob and pull the door shut behind her—when she saw the legs sprawled across the floor.