Chapter Twelve
Gennie looked at her cards and considered. A nine and an eight. She should play it safe with seventeen; another card would be a foolish risk. Life was full of them, she decided, and signaled the dealer. The four she drew made her smile ironically. Lucky at cards…
What was she doing sitting at a blackjack table at seven-fifteen on a Sunday morning? Well, she thought, it was certainly a convenient way to pass the time. More productive then pacing the floor or beating on a pillow. She'd already tried both of those. Yet somehow, the streak of luck she'd been enjoying for the past hour hadn't lightened her mood. Perversely, she would have preferred it if she'd lost resoundingly. That way, she would have had some new hook to hang her depression on.
Restless, she cashed in her chips and stuffed the winnings in her bag. Maybe she could lose them at the dice table later.
There was only a handful of people in the casino now. A very small elderly lady sat on a stool at a slot machine and systematically fed in quarters. Occasionally Gennie would hear the jingle of coins spill into the tray. Later, the huge, rather elegant room would fill, then Gennie could lose herself in the smoke and noise. But for now, she wandered out to the wide glass wall and looked out at the sea.
Was this why she had come here instead of going home as she had intended? When she had tossed her suitcase and painting gear into the car, her only thought had been to get back to New Orleans and pick up her life again. She'd made the detour almost before she'd been aware of it.
Yet now that she was here, had been here for over two weeks, she couldn't bring herself to walk out on that beach. She could look at it, yes, and she could listen. But she couldn't go to it.
Why was she tormenting herself like this? she wondered miserably. Why was she keeping herself within reach of what would always remind her of Grant? Because, she admitted, no matter how many times she'd told herself she had, she had yet to accept the final break. It was just as impossible for her to go back to him as it was for her to walk down to that blue-green water. He'd rejected her, and the hurt of it left her hollow.
I love you, but…
No, she couldn't understand that. Love meant anything was possible. Love meant making anything possible. If his love had been real, he'd have understood that, too.
She'd have been better off resisting the urge to look up Macintosh in the paper. She wouldn't have seen that ridiculous and poignant strip where Veronica had walked into his life. It had made her laugh, then remembering had made her cry. What right did he have to use her in his work when he wouldn't share himself with her? And he'd used her again and again, in dozens of papers across the country where readers were following Macintosh's growing romance—his over-his-head, dazed-eyed involvement—with the sexy, alluring Veronica.
It was funny, and the touches of satire and cynicism made it funnier. It was human. He'd taken the foolishness and the pitfalls of falling in love and had given them the touch every man or woman who'd ever been there would understand. Each time she read the strip, Gennie could recognize something they'd done or something she'd said, though he had a way of tilting it to an odd angle. With his penchant for privacy, Grant still, vicariously, shared his own emotional roller coaster with the public.
It made her ache to read it day after day. Day after day, she read it.
"Up early, Gennie?"
As a hand touched her shoulder, she turned to Justin. "I've always been a morning person," she evaded, then smiled at him. "I cleaned up at your tables."
He returned the smile, while behind guarded eyes he assessed her. She was pale—still as pale as she had been when she'd so suddenly checked into the
Comanche. The pallor only accented the smudges of sleeplessness under her eyes. She had a wounded look that he recognized because he, too, was deeply in love. Whatever had come between her and Grant had left its mark on her.
"How about some breakfast?" He slipped an arm over her shoulders before she could answer, and began leading her toward his office.
"I'm not really hungry, Justin," she began.
"You haven't really been hungry for two weeks." He guided her through the outer office into his private one, then pushed the button on his elevator. "You're the only cousin I have whom I care about, Genvieve. I'm tired of watching you waste away in front of my eyes."
"I'm not!" she said indignantly, then leaned her head against his arm. "There's nothing worse than having someone moping around feeling sorry for themselves, is there?"
"A damned nuisance," he agreed lightly as he drew her into the private car. "How much did you take me for in there?"
It took her a minute to realize he'd changed the subject. "Oh, I don't know—five, six hundred."
"I'll put breakfast on your tab," he said as the doors opened to his and Serena's suite. Her laugh pleased him as much as the hug she gave him.
"Just like a man," Serena stated as she came into the room. "Waltzing in with a beautiful woman at the crack of dawn while the wife stays home and changes the baby." She held a gurgling Mac over her shoulder.
Justin grinned at her. "Nothing worse than a jealous woman."
Lifting her elegant brows, Serena walked over and shifted the baby into his arms. "Your turn,"
she said, smiling, then collapsed into an armchair. "Mac's teething," she told Gennie. "And not being a terribly good sport about it."
"You are," Justin told her as his son began to soothe sore gums on his shoulder.
Serena grinned, tucked up her feet, and yawned hugely. "I'm assured this, too, shall pass. Have you two eaten?"
"I've just invited Gennie to have some breakfast."
Serena caught her husband's dry look and understood it. Railroaded would have been a more apt word, she imagined. "Good," she said simply, and picked up the phone. "One of the nicest things about living in a hotel is room service."
While Serena ordered breakfast for three, Gennie wandered. She liked this suite of rooms—so full of warmth and color and personality. If it had ever held the aura of a hotel room, it had long since lost it. The baby cooed as Justin sat on the couch to play with him. Serena's low, melodious voice spoke to the kitchen far below.
If you love enough, Gennie thought as she roamed to the window overlooking the beach, if you want enough, you can make a home anywhere. Rena and Justin had. Wherever they decided to live, and in whatever fashion, they were family. It was just that basic.
She knew they worked together to care for their child, to run the casino and hotel. They were a unit. There were rough spots, she was sure. There had to be in any relationship—particularly between two strong-willed personalities. But they got through them because each was willing to bend when it was necessary to bend.
Hadn't she been? New Orleans would have become a place to visit—to see her family, to stir old memories if the need arose. She could have made her home on that rough coast of Maine—for him, with him. She'd have been willing to give so much if only he'd been willing to give in return. Perhaps it wasn't a matter of his being willing. Perhaps Grant had simply not been able to give. That's what she should accept. Once she did, she could finally close the door.
"The ocean's beautiful, isn't it?" Serena said from behind her.
"Yes." Gennie turned her head. "I've gotten used to seeing it. Of course, I've always lived with the river."
"Is that what you're going back to?"
Gennie turned back to the window. "In the end I suppose."
"It's the wrong choice, Gennie."
"Serena," Justin said warningly, but she turned on him with her eyes flashing and her voice low with exasperation.
"Damn it, Justin, she's miserable! There's nothing like a stubborn, pig-headed man to make a woman miserable, is there, Gennie?"
With a half laugh, she dragged a hand through her hair. "No, I don't guess there is."
"That works both ways," Justin reminded her.
"And if the man's pig-headed enough," Serena went on precisely, "it's up to the woman to give him a push."
"He didn't want me," Gennie said in a rush, then stopped. The words hurt, but she could say them. Maybe it was time she did. "Not really, or at any rate not enough. He simply wasn't willing to believe that there were ways we could have worked out whatever problems we had. He won't share—it's as though he's determined not to. It seemed we got close for that short amount of time in spite of him. He didn't want to be in love with me, he doesn't want to depend on anyone."
While she spoke, Justin rose and took Mac into another room. The tinkling music of his mobile drifted out. "Gennie," Justin began when he came back in, "do you know about Grant and Shelby's father?"
She let out a long sigh before she sank into a chair. "I know he died when Grant was about seventeen."
"Was assassinated," Justin corrected, and watched the horror cloud in her eyes. "Senator Robert Campbell. You'd have been a child, but you might remember."
She did, vaguely. The talk, the television coverage, the trial… and Grant had been there. Hadn't Shelby said both she and Grant had been there when their father was killed? Murdered right in front of their eyes. "Oh, God, Justin, it must've been horrible for them."
"Scars don't always heal cleanly," he murmured, touching an absent hand to his own side in a gesture his wife understood. "From what Alan's told me, Shelby carried around that fear and that pain for a long time. I can't imagine it would be any different for Grant. Sometimes…" His gaze drifted to Serena. "You're afraid to get too close, because then you can lose."
Serena went to him to slip her hand into his.
"Don't you see, he kept that from me, too." Gennie grabbed the back of the armchair and squeezed. She hurt for him—for the boy and the man. "He wouldn't confide in me, he wouldn't let me understand. As long as there're secrets, there's distance."
"Don't you believe he loves you?" Serena asked gently.
"Not enough," Gennie said with a violent shake of her head. "I'd starve needing more."
"Shelby called last night," Serena said as the knock on the door announced breakfast. As Justin went to answer she gestured Gennie toward the small dining area in front of the window. "Grant surprised her and Alan with a visit a few days ago."
"Is he—"
"No," Serena interrupted, sitting. "He's back in Maine now. She did say he badgered her with questions. Of course, she didn't have the answer until she spoke to me and found out you were here." Gennie frowned at the sea and said nothing. "She wondered if you were following Macintosh in the papers. It took me over two hours to figure why she would have asked that."
Gennie turned back with a speculative look which Serena met blandly. "Perhaps I'm not following you," she said, automatically guarding Grant's secret.
Serena took the pot the waiter placed on the table. "Coffee, Veronica?"
Gennie let out an admiring laugh and nodded her head. "You're very quick, Rena."
"I love puzzles," she corrected, "and the pieces were all there."
"That was the last thing we argued about." Gennie glanced at Justin as he took his seat. After adding cream to her coffee, she simply toyed with the handle of the cup. "All the time we were together, he never told me what he did. Then, when I stumbled across it, he was so angry—as if I had invaded his privacy. I was so pleased. When I thought he simply wasn't doing anything with his talent, I couldn't understand. Then to learn what he was doing—something so clever and demanding…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "He just never let me in."
"Maybe you didn't ask loud enough," Serena suggested.
"If he rejected me again, Rena, I'd fall apart. It's not a matter of pride, really. It's more a matter of strength."
"I've seen you making yourself sick with nerves before a showing," Justin reminded her. "But you always go through with it."
"It's one thing to expose yourself, your feelings to the public, and another to risk them with one person knowing there wouldn't be anything left if he didn't want them. I have a showing coming up in November," she said as she toyed with the eggs on her plate. "That's what I have to concentrate on now."
"Maybe you'd like to glance at this while you eat." Justin slipped the comics section out of the paper the waiter had brought up.
Gennie stared at it, not wanting to see, unable to resist. After a moment she took it from his hand.
The Sunday edition was large and brightly colored. This Macintosh was rather drab, however, and lost-looking. In one glance she could see the hues were meant to indicate depression and loneliness. She mused that Grant knew how to immediately engage the readers' attention and guide their mood.
In the first section Macintosh himself was sitting alone, his elbows on his knees, his chin sunk in his hands. No words or captions were needed to project the misery. The readers' sympathies were instantly aroused. Who'd dumped on the poor guy this time?
At a knock on the door he mumbled—it had to be mumbled—"Come in." But he didn't alter his position as Ivan, the Russian émigré, strolled in wearing his usual fanatically American attire—
Western, this time, cowboy hat and boots included.
"Hey, Macintosh, I got two tickets for the basketball game. Let's go check out the cheerleaders."
No response.
Ivan pulled up a chair and tipped back his hat. "You can buy the beer, it's an American way of life. We'll take your car."
No response.
"But I'll drive," Ivan said cheeringly, nudging Macintosh with the toe of his pointed boot.
"Oh, hello, Ivan." Macintosh settled back into his gloom again.
"Hey, man, got a problem?"
"Veronica left me."
Ivan crossed one leg over the other and was obviously jiggling his foot. "Oh, yeah? For some other guy, huh?"
"No."
"How come?"
Macintosh never altered positions, and the very absence of action made the point. "Because I was selfish, rude, arrogant, dishonest, stupid, and generally nasty."
Ivan considered the toe of his boot. "Is that all?"
"Yeah."
"Women," Ivan said with a shrug. "Never satisfied."
Gennie read the strip twice, then looked up helplessly. Without a word, Serena took the paper from her hand and read it herself. She chuckled once, then set it back down.
"Want me to help you pack?"
Where the hell was she? Grant knew he'd go mad if he asked himself the question one more time.
Where the hell was she?
From the lookout deck of his lighthouse he could see for miles. But he couldn't see Gennie. The wind slapped at his face as he stared out to sea and wondered what in God's name he was going to do.
Forget her? He might occasionally forget to eat or to sleep, but he couldn't forget Gennie.
Unfortunately, his memory was just as clear on the last ten minutes they had been together. How could he have been such a fool! Oh, it was easy, Grant thought in disgust. He'd had lots of practice.
If he hadn't spent those two days cursing her, and himself, stalking the beach one minute, shut up in his studio the next, he might not have been too late. By the time he'd realized he'd cut out his own heart, she'd been gone. The cottage had been closed up, and the Widow Lawrence knew nothing and was saying less.
He'd flown to New Orleans and searched for her like a madman. Her apartment had been empty—her neighbors hadn't heard a word. Even when he'd located her grandmother by calling every Grandeau in the phone book, he'd learned nothing more than that Gennie was traveling.
Traveling, he thought. Yes, she was traveling—away from him just as fast as she could. Oh, you deserve it, Campbell, he berated himself. You deserve to have her skip out of your life without a backward glance.
He'd called the MacGregors—thank God he'd gotten Anna on the phone instead of Daniel. They hadn't heard from her. Not a sound. She might have been anywhere. Nowhere. If it hadn't been for the painting she'd left behind, he might have believed she'd been a mirage after all.
She'd left the painting for him, he remembered, the one she'd finished the afternoon they'd become lovers. But there'd been no note. He'd wanted to fling it off the cliff. He'd hung it in his bedroom. Perhaps it was his sackcloth and ashes, for every time he looked at it, he suffered.
Sooner or later, he promised himself, he'd find her. Her name, her picture would be in the paper.
He'd track her down and bring her back.
Bring her back, hell, Grant thought, dragging a hand through his hair. He'd beg, plead, grovel, whatever it took to make her give him another chance. It was her fault, he decided with a quick switch back to fury. Her fault, that he was acting like a maniac. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in over two weeks. And the solitude he'd always prized was threatening to smother him. If he didn't find her soon, he'd lose what was left of his mind.
Infuriated, he swung away from the rail. If he couldn't work, he could go down to the beach.
Maybe he'd find some peace there.
Everything looked the same, Gennie thought as she came to the end of the narrow, bumpy road.
Though summer had finally surrendered to fall, nothing had really changed. The sea still crashed and roared, eating slowly at the rock. The lighthouse still stood, solitary and strong. It had been foolish for her to have worried that she would find that something important, perhaps essential, had altered since she'd left.
Grant wouldn't have changed, either. On a deep breath she stepped from the car. More than anything, she didn't want him to change what made him uniquely Grant Campbell. She'd fallen in love with the rough exterior, the reluctant sensitivity—yes, even the rudeness. Perhaps she was a fool. She didn't want to change him; all she wanted was his trust.
If she'd misinterpreted that strip—if he turned her away… No, she wasn't going to think about that. She was going to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other until she faced him again. It was time she stopped being a coward about the things most vital to her life.
As soon as she touched the door handle, Gennie stopped. He wasn't in there. Without knowing how or why, she was absolutely certain of it. The lighthouse was empty. Glancing back, she saw his truck parked in its spot near the farmhouse. Was he out in his boat? she wondered as she started around the side. It was at the dock, swaying gently at low tide.
Then she knew, and wondered she hadn't known from the first. Without hesitation, she started for the cliff.
With his hands in his pockets and the wind tugging at his jacket, Grant walked along the shoreline. So this was loneliness, he thought. He'd lived alone for years without feeling it. It was one more thing to lay at Gennie's feet. How was it possible that one lone female could have changed the essence of his life?
With a calculated effort, he worked himself into a temper. Anger didn't hurt. When he found her—and by God, he would—she'd have a lot to answer for. His life had been moving along exactly as he'd wanted it before she'd barged in on it. Love? Oh, she could talk about love, then disappear just because he'd been an idiot.
He hadn't asked to need her. She'd hammered at him until he'd weakened, then she'd taken off the minute he hurt her. Grant turned to the sea, but shut his eyes. God, he had hurt her. He'd seen it on her face, heard it in her voice. How could he ever make up for that? He'd rather have seen anger or tears than that stricken look he'd put in her eyes.
If he went back to New Orleans… she might be there now. He could go back, and if he couldn't find her, he could wait. She had to go back sooner or later; the city meant too much to her. Damn it, what was he doing standing there when he should be on a plane going south?
Grant turned, and stared. Now he was seeing things.
Gennie watched him with a calmness that, didn't reveal the thudding of her heart. He'd looked so alone—not in that chosen solitary way he had, but simply lonely. Perhaps she'd imagined it because she wanted to believe he'd been thinking of her. Gathering all her courage, Gennie crossed to him.
"I want to know what you meant by this." She reached in her pocket and pulled out the clipping of his Sunday strip.
He stared at her. He might see things—he might even hear things, but… slowly, he reached out and touched her face. "Gennie?"
Her knees went weak. Resolutely, Gennie stiffened them. She wasn't going to fall into his arms.
It would be so easy, and it would solve nothing. "I want to know what this means." She shoved the clipping into his hand.
Off balance, Grant looked down at his work. It hadn't been easy to get that into the papers so quickly. He'd had to pull all the strings at his disposal and work like a maniac himself. If that was what brought her, it had all been worth it.
"It means what it says," he managed, staring at her again. "There's not a lot of subtlety in this particular strip."
She took the paper back from him and stuck it in her pocket. It was something she intended to keep forever. "You've used me rather lavishly in your work recently." She had to tilt back her head in order to keep her eyes level with his. Grant thought she looked more regal than ever. If she turned her thumb down, she could throw him to the lions. "Didn't it occur to you to ask permission first?"
"Artist's privilege." He felt the light spray hit his back, saw it dampen her hair. "Where the hell did you go?" he heard himself demand. "Where the hell have you been?"
Her eyes narrowed. "That's my business, isn't it?"
"Oh, no." He grabbed her arms and shook. "Oh, no, it's not. You're not going to walk out on me."
Gennie set her teeth and waited until he'd stopped shaking her. "If memory serves, you did the walking figuratively before I did it literally."
"All right! I acted like an idiot. You want an apology?" he shouted at her. "I'll give you any kind you want. I'll—" He broke off, his breath heaving. "Oh God, first."
And his mouth crushed down on hers, his fingers digging into her shoulders. The groan that was wrenched from him was only one more sign of a desperate need. She was here, she was his. He'd never let her go again.
His mind started to clear so that his own thoughts jabbed at him. This wasn't how he wanted to do it.
This wasn't the way to make up for what he'd done—or hadn't done. And it wasn't the way to show her how badly he wanted to make her happy.
With an effort, Grant drew her away and dropped his hands to his sides. "I'm sorry," he began stiffly. "I didn't intend to hurt you—not now, not before. If you'd come inside, we could talk."
What was this? she wondered. Who was this? She understood the man who had shaken her, shouted at her, the man who had dragged her into his arms full of need and fury. But she had no idea who this man was who was standing in front of her offering a stilted apology. Gennie's brows drew together. She hadn't come all this way to talk to a stranger.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" she demanded. "I'll let you know when you hurt me." She shoved a finger into his chest. " And when I want an apology. We'll talk, all right," she added, flinging back her head. "And we'll talk right here."
"What do you want!" In exasperation, Grant threw up his hands. How was a man supposed to crawl properly when someone was kicking at him?
"I'll tell you what I want!" Gennie shouted right back. "I want to know if you want to work this out or sneak back into your hole. You're good at hiding out; if that's what you want to keep doing, just say so."
"I am not hiding out," he said evenly and between his teeth. "I live here because I like it here, because I can work here without having someone knocking on the door or ringing the phone every five minutes."
She gave him a long, level look edged with fury.
"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it."
Yes, he knew it. Frustrated, he stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from shaking her again.
"Okay, I kept things from you. I'm used to keeping things to myself, it's habit. And then… And then I kept things from you because the harder I fell in love with you, the more terrified I was.
Look, damn it, I didn't want to depend on anyone for—" He broke off to drag a hand through his hair.
"For what?"
"For being there when I needed them," he said on a long breath. Where had that been hiding? he wondered, a great deal more surprised by his words than Gennie was. "I should tell you about my father."
She touched him then, her eyes softening for the first time. "Justin told me."
Grant stiffened instantly and turned away.
"Were you going to keep that from me, too, Grant?"
"I wanted to tell you myself," he managed after a moment. "Explain—make you understand."
"I do understand," she told him. "Enough, at least. We've both lost people we loved very much and depended on in our own ways. It seems to me we've compensated for the loss in our own ways as well. I do understand what it's like to have someone you love die, suddenly, right in front of your eyes."
Grant heard her voice thicken, and turned. He couldn't handle tears now, not when he was so tightly strung himself. "Don't. It's something you have to put aside, never away, but aside. I thought I
had, but it crept back up on me when I got involved with you."
She nodded and swallowed. This wasn't the time for tears or a time to dwell on the past. "You wanted me to go that day."
"Maybe—yes." He looked past her to the top of the cliff. "I thought it was the only way for both of us. Maybe it still is; I just can't live with it."
Confused, she put a hand on his arm. "Why do you think being apart might be the best thing?"
"We've chosen to live in two totally different worlds, Gennie, and both of us were content before we met. Now—"
"Now," she said, firing up again. "Now what? Are you still so stubborn you won't consider compromise?"
He looked at her blankly. Why was she talking about compromises when he was about to fold up everything and go with her anywhere. "Compromise?"
"You don't even know the meaning of the word! For someone as clever and astute as you are, you're a closed-minded fool!" Furious, she turned to stalk away.
"Wait." Grant grabbed her arm so quickly, she stumbled back against him. "You're not listening to me. I'll sell the land, give it away if you want. We'll live in New Orleans. Damn it, I'll take out a front page ad declaring myself as Macintosh's artist if it'll make you happy. We can have our picture plastered on every magazine in the country."
"Is that what you think I want?" She'd thought he'd already made her as angry as she was capable of getting a dozen times during their relationship. Nothing had ever compared to this. "You simple, egotistical ass! I don't care whether you write your strip in blood under the cover of darkness. I don't care if you pose for a hundred magazines or snarl at the paparazzi. Sell the land?" she continued while he tried to keep up. "Why in God's name would you do that?
Everything's black and white to you. Compromise!" Gennie raged at him. "It means give and take. Do you think I care where I live?"
"I don't know!" What little patience he had snapped. "I only know you've lived a certain way—
you were happy. You've got roots in New Orleans, family."
"I'll always have roots and family in New Orleans, it doesn't mean I have to be there twelve months out of the year." She dragged both hands through her hair, holding it back from her face a moment as she wondered how such an intelligent man could be so dense. "And yes, I've lived a certain way, and I can live a different way to a point. I couldn't stop being an artist for you because I'd stop being me. I have a show to deal with in November—I need the shows and I need you to be with me. But there are other things I can give back, if you'd only meet me halfway. If I made the ridiculous move of falling in love with you, why would I want you to give up everything you are now?"
He stared at her, willing himself to be calm. Why was she making so much sense and he so little?
"What do you want?" he began, then held up a hand before she could shout at him.
"Compromise," he finished.
"More." She lifted her chin, but her eyes were more uncertain than arrogant. "I need you to trust me."
"Gennie." He took her hand and linked fingers. "I do. That's what I've been trying to tell you."
"You haven't been doing a good job of it."
"No." He drew her closer. "Let me try again." He kissed her, telling himself to be gentle and easy with her. But his arms locked and tightened, his mouth hungered. The spray shimmered over both of them as they stood entangled. "You're the whole focus of my world," he murmured.
"After you left, I went crazy. I flew down to New Orleans, and—"
"You did?" Stunned, she drew back to look at him. "You went after me?"
"With various purposes in mind," he muttered. "First, I was going to strangle you, then I was going to crawl, then I was going to just drag you back and lock you upstairs."
Smiling, she rested her head on his chest. "And now?"
"Now." He kissed her hair. "We compromise. I'll let you live."
"Good start." With a sigh, she closed her eyes. "I want to watch the sea in winter."
He tilted her face to his. "We will."
"There is something else…"
"Before or after I make love to you?"
Laughing, she pulled away from him. "It better be before. Since you haven't mentioned marriage yet, it falls to me."
"Gennie—"
"No, this is one time we'll do it all my way."
She drew out the coin Serena had given her before she'd left the Comanche. "And, in a way, it's a kind of compromise. Heads, we get married. Tails we don't."
Grant grabbed her wrist before she could toss. "You're not going to play games with something like that, Genvieve, unless that's a two-headed coin."
She smiled. "It certainly is."
Surprise came first, then his grin. "Toss it. I like the odds."