“Oh, Nash. I’m so sorry.”
Darcy watched Nash, trying to read his face, his posture. What should she do? He seemed so alone, and he was so near she could almost touch him. She wanted to go to him, to embrace him. But she knew his sorrow belonged to him, he held it close to him, it was huge and dreadful and the best she could do was respect his grief. She sat quietly, waiting.
Finally Nash looked up at Darcy. His expression was bleak. “So, yes, I believe you did the right thing with the girl.” He rose, walking over to the grill. “The coals are almost ready.”
“I’ll get the salad.” Darcy respected his need to change the subject. She tossed the salad, then set out the plates and utensils he’d brought to a side table.
Nash closed the grill. “Five minutes.”
Darcy cocked her head. “One thing, Nash.”
He looked at her warily.
“Law firm? Briefcase?”
Nash barked an abrupt laugh. “All true. I was going to save the world. Ha. I couldn’t even save my brother.” He slumped into his chair. “Yeah, I went to law school, passed the Massachusetts bar. Got a job with a firm in Boston that did ten percent of its work pro bono. But after Edsel…I didn’t see the point. I wanted out of my head. I was driving myself nuts with words. So I joined a construction crew building houses on the Cape. Now that was work. That was clear. Lift boards, pound nails, at the end of the day you’ve got a wall. Keep doing that, you’ve got a house. Do it well, that house will last a long time.” He nodded to himself. “Yeah.”
“And you traveled.”
“Yeah, I did. In the winter, we didn’t have as much work. I traveled. This winter I came here, joined Ramos’s crew—and stopped traveling.”
“Do you think you’ll stay on the island?”
Nash shrugged. “I might. It’s nice enough here.” He stood up. “Time to eat.”
She could tell he was done with intimate talk, so she asked him how his day had gone, and he told her about a guy working on a house across the street who got his foot stuck in a tray of paint and the guys nearly fell off their ladders laughing. Darcy told him about the vomiting child in story hour, and that brought a smile to his face. By the time they’d finished eating, the tension had evaporated.
“Dessert’s inside,” Nash told her with a grin.
“Can’t you bring it out?” Darcy teased.
“It’s ice cream. In the freezer.”
“Well, let’s go in, then.”
They carried their plates in and up the stairs to his apartment. It was a good-size space, spread over the two-car garage, living room with kitchen, bedroom, bath.
Nash’s furniture was an unusual mixture of tag sale and Ethan Allen—his sofa, armchair, and king-size bed were handsome and new. He had, of course, a flat-screen TV and, surprisingly, a shelf of vinyl and a record player. Two window air conditioners cooled the rooms. His kitchen table and chairs were used and scarred, but his laptop was on the kitchen counter, set to a page of recipes.
“Recipes?” Darcy asked.
Nash shrugged. “I like to cook. I watch Chef’s Table.”
“So do I! In the winter, when things calm down, let’s have some cooking dates,” Darcy suggested. Nash had his back to her—setting plates in the dishwasher—and when he didn’t respond, anxiety pinched her. Was she too eagerly assuming they’d still be together in the winter?
She forced herself to study his shelf of books. She bent over to scan the titles—science fiction, nonfiction, thrillers.
“Nice.”
“I think so.” As he spoke, Nash put his hands on her hips and pressed himself against her.
Lust shot through her so fast her knees went weak. Straightening up, she turned in his arms and kissed him.
“Ice cream later,” Nash said.
They couldn’t let go of each other, couldn’t stop kissing, touching, sliding hands up beneath shirts, so they half walked, half stumbled into the bedroom, falling on the bed. Nash was ready, she could tell through her clothes and his jeans, but he surprised her by pulling her arms above her head.
“Slow. Let’s go slow.”
She sank into the bed, eyes closed, and gave herself over to him as he slowly kissed her face, her neck, her shoulder, the inside of her elbow. Her fingers. He tugged her skirt and panties down and kissed her ankles, her knees, her thighs. She was going to explode with desire. She twisted on the bed as he ran his hands over her breasts and kissed her belly.
“Can’t wait. Please,” she begged, even though somewhere deep inside she could tell this was a different kind of making love than she’d experienced with Nash so far.
That was it—it was not having sex, it was making love.
Then he was naked, and then he was inside her, and she held him to her, and there was an intimacy between them that hadn’t been there before, a depth, a ferocity, a claiming. Nash was making her his.
Afterward, he smoothed back her hair, which had gotten tangled and moist with sweat.
“Good grief,” Darcy said breathlessly.
“Yeah, I know.” Nash was smiling.
They spooned close together and drowsed. Darcy woke to the sound of the shower. She walked, naked, to the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain.
Nash’s mouth curled slightly. “Don’t even think about getting in here with me. I am done for tonight.”
“You mean you want to check the Red Sox game,” Darcy said, only half kidding.
When Nash stepped out of the shower, a towel around his waist, Darcy stepped in. After she dried off, she dressed and found Nash in the living room with two bowls of ice cream. Curled up on one end of the sofa, Darcy ate her ice cream and watched the television, knowing that this evening between them had changed things. She felt closer to him than ever before. She thought maybe he felt the same, and was too scared to talk about it.
She was scared, too. What she felt was huge. It could change their lives. The ice cream, the ball game were a resting place, a time-out. They both needed it.
At nine, she yawned and stretched. “I’m falling asleep here. Gotta go. Work tomorrow.”
Nash walked her down the stairs and out to her car. She set the salad bowl in the backseat and opened the driver’s door. Nash took her in his arms and kissed her forehead.
“Listen,” he said. “You know what I told you tonight—that’s private. I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone else.”
“Of course, Nash.”
“Not even Jordan.”
“Not even Jordan,” she assured him.
12