He tightened the belt on his robe and went to the hall to fetch the wine from the cooler. From the corner of his eye he watched her quickly tiptoe through the room in her bare feet to the small kitchen. By the time he joined her there, she’d already pulled out the glasses. He filled them and offered one to her, and they headed for the sunroom, drawn by the loud rumbling of thunder to watch the storm. “It’s really coming down,” he said, going to stand in front of the window.
The sky was dark, making the afternoon feel like night. Lightning bolts pierced the sky in an impressive display over the ocean. Palm trees shook their fronds in the fury of the storm, tapping the glass. In their cages, the canaries hunkered down and were uncharacteristically quiet.
“It’s chilly in here,” she said.
Bo reached out and put his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. “Better?”
“A bit,” she replied, shifting closer to him. She lifted one bare foot. “But the floor is still cold.”
“Do you have any firewood?”
Heather’s brow furrowed. “Um, I think there’s some in the fireplace. It’s been set since I arrived, but I’ve never used it.”
“What better time than a storm?” He stretched out a hand. “Come on.”
Together they returned to the living room, where he handed her his wineglass and bent to inspect the fireplace. Logs were neatly stacked and there was a basket with tinder by the hearth. He reached far in and, craning his neck, checked the flue. He shifted the lever to open it, then stood up, clapping the soot from his hands.
“That ought to do it. If I can find a match. Aha! There!” he exclaimed, finding long matches beside the tinder. He hunkered over the wood, and soon sparks lit. He blew onto the wood, watching it glow, and before long there was the crackling sound of flickering flames.
Heather went to the chintz sofa and sat, curling her legs under her like a cat. She sipped her wine, looking at him over the rim of her glass. Bo stood close to the fire, slowly wiping his hands on the robe while he looked at her and thought she had no idea how sexy she was. If she were a cat, her tail would be twitching now.
“There are some board games in that bureau next to you. Why don’t you pick one out and we can play.”
He was amused, but was careful not to laugh. A board game, he thought as he nodded. Here they were, naked under their robes, a fire burning . . . he hadn’t expected to be playing a board game. Bo bent to open the bureau and found a stack of old cardboard-boxed games that looked like they’d been there for decades. They probably had, he thought, going through the titles. Monopoly, Risk, Battleship, Yahtzee, Scrabble, and several gazillion-piece puzzles. He looked over his shoulder to see Heather perched on the sofa watching him, looking every inch a woman but with her inexperience shining in her expressive eyes.
This wasn’t just any woman, he reminded himself. This was Heather. She was an enigma. As much a mystery to ponder as any puzzle in this bureau.
“Scrabble it is!” he announced, pulling out the board game.
She raised his glass to him. “Good choice!”
He joined her on the sofa, sinking into the ancient down cushions. The opening of her robe had fallen wider, exposing more of her slender chest and just a hint of a rounded breast. In a flash he saw again the vision of her standing in the rain, her breasts visible through the thin cotton, her nipples taut. Again he felt a rush of desire and wished his wine were something stronger, like good bourbon. He turned to the game and opened the box on the coffee table.
“Feeling warmer now?” he asked her.
“Mmm,” she replied softly, almost like a purr. “I get cold easily. Always have. My father used to say it was because I needed more meat on my bones.”
“I was looking at the photographs on the mantel. You look a lot like your mother. Small, like her.”
“Yes,” she said softly. She set down her wineglass and began gathering the tiles into the pouch.
Bo spread out the board game. It was an old board, without all the newer fancy plastic borders for the letters.
“Are you an only child?”
Heather shook the pouch in her hand. The clicking noise was a counterpoint to the snapping of the fire. “I am. Most people think only children are terribly spoiled, but that’s not true. I don’t think I had any more toys than most children,” she said with a slight tone of defense. “My parents didn’t buy me things and expect me to entertain myself. That’s what was so great about my childhood,” she added.
He watched her eyes shine with her memories but remained silent, listening as she opened up.
“We did a lot together, my parents and me. My mother knew I was shy and she refused to let me stay inside alone. So if we went hiking or swimming, we’d do it together. Or when we went to Europe, we’d plan the museums and places we wanted to go to together, study the history, and talk about it at dinner.” Heather paused and took a deep sip of her wine, suddenly suffused with emotion. “My mother was my best friend,” she said quietly with a catch to her voice.
Bo kept silent, eyes on the game, allowing her time to continue.
“It was my fault she died.”
Shaken, Bo swung his head from the game to study her face. “How?”
“I was at my high school graduation party. The only party I went to all year,” she added with a snort of derision. “I drank the punch and got too drunk to drive home. So I called her to come pick me up.” Heather swallowed hard and clasped her knees tightly. Outside the thunder clapped, and she jerked her head up toward the window. “It rained that night. Like today. One minute we were talking about the party. The next minute some SUV was hydroplaning right for us.”
“My God, Heather.” He wished he could do something, anything, to take away the pain he saw on her face and make it just a bit better, even if only for a few moments.
Heather released a long sigh and took a moment to compose herself. “That’s why I don’t drink much. If I hadn’t been drinking that night, she would still be alive today.”
“We all drank in high school. It’s a rite of passage.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“Maybe not. But don’t blame yourself for that, Heather. You were a kid.”
“Then who do I blame?”
“No one. It was raining. A car lost control. That’s why they’re called accidents. It doesn’t make it any less tragic, but you can’t blame yourself. She did what she felt was right. What any parent would have done in those circumstances.”
Heather reached out to set the pouch of letters on the table and picked up her wineglass. She looked at the glass as if she could see the answer to her grief in its clear depths. “I felt as though I’d died, too,” she practically whispered.
Bo took a long drink, then set his glass on the table. Then he reached over to take her glass and placed it gently beside his. Moving closer, he grasped both of her hands and gently tugged, drawing her up to her knees and closer to him even as he shifted, stretching his legs out and leaning back against the armrest. Heather slid toward him, half on the sofa and half against the length of him.
Heather rested her head against his chest, her hand over his heart.
Bo wrapped one arm around her shoulders and let his other hand smooth the hair back from her face, curling it around her ear, then tilted his head to place a kiss on her forehead.