“Where, then?” he asked quickly.
“Nowhere.” She shook her head and looked around to make sure no one had noticed the two of them together, talking like this. Ingrid was looking mournfully across the room at that handsome detective, Matt Noble, the only one who had questioned Freya’s ability to work at the North Inn bar, citing her high school graduation not too long ago (the trick on her driver’s license had not worked on him for some reason). He was talking to one of the young librarians who worked with Ingrid, an arm around her shoulders. Meanwhile Joanna was eating profiteroles at a nearby table, her face a mask of bliss. “I told you, like I told you that night. I can’t see you again,” Freya whispered.
“But you want to,” Killian insisted.
“No. No, I don’t.”
Yes, they had made love the night of her engagement party . . . no, they had fucked. The minute he had locked the door behind him she had practically thrown herself at him, had ripped his clothes off to be able to touch his body. It had taken every ounce of her willpower not to scream the moment his hand slipped between her legs. When he’d pinned her against the sink and had his way, she was open and hungry and afterward . . . afterward . . . she had looked into his beautiful face and wanted to cry. In response, he had kissed her again, and they had made love for the second time, slowly this time, savoring every moment, which made it even hotter than the first. . . .
But that was enough. After that she had regained her senses. She had told him under no circumstances could they ever do that again, as she had made a terrible mistake. She had fled the party and had not looked back, not once.
Freya was aware she wasn’t perfect, and she never claimed to be. But she would never do anything to hurt someone she loved so dearly. It was a slip, an accident, bridal jitters, her own commitment issues. After all, it had been a very long time since she’d had a husband . . . but now she was set and determined. She loved Bran and one moment (or two, really, if one was counting) of weakness with Killian did not change that. It did not change anything.
“Killian, I should have called you to talk about it. I’m sorry I didn’t. I meant what I said to you that night, I don’t know what I was doing, I was out of my mind, it was a horrid lapse of judgment.”
He placed a strawberry on her plate, ripe and luscious. “Call it what you want . . . but you know where to find me.” He slipped a key into her pocket. “This will get you into the Dragon, it’s docked on the far side of Gardiners Island. Don’t worry, Bran never goes there. I’ll be waiting for you every night this week. If you don’t come see me by Sunday night, I won’t bother you anymore.”
Before she could reply he stepped away suddenly and disappeared into the crowd.
“Sorry! What did I miss?” Bran asked, finally appearing by her side, looking tired and drained from his travels. “Has the silent auction started?” he asked, picking up the fruit skewer from her plate and taking a bite. “I’m starved! Is there any food left?”
“Let’s go see,” Freya said. She kissed her beloved on the cheek, the key heavy and hot in her pocket, an iron poker.
chapter fifteen
A Certain Wild Magic
Her dress pinched at the waist and Joanna squirmed in her old-fashioned girdle. It was why she did not go to very many fancy parties these days, as she despised wearing tight clothing. Was it her imagination or was her dress so much smaller than she remembered? Her feet hurt, too; why did she let Freya talk her into wearing heels? It was a nice event, and good to see the community pulling together after a disaster. There was a lot of unease and uncertainty in the air. No one was quite sure how it would affect the local economy, but certainly not only the fishing industry but many of the local restaurants that specialized in seafood from the coastal waters were in danger. It was such a shame, and one that no one mentioned since it was much too painful, but the consequences were already being felt; instead of the usual northeastern summer spread, the dinner entrée was some sort of chicken à la boring.
Joanna bade her good-byes to her daughters: Freya was huddled somewhere with Bran, while Ingrid sat at a table with a few of her cohorts from the library. She left the party and began to walk home. The city square was a few blocks away from the beachfront, and her house was just a mile down the shore. It was a pleasant summer evening, and the grassy dunes made this stretch of beach seem more private than the rest of the shore. She could scarcely hear the last sounds of the party behind her as she stepped onto the warm sand. She removed her shoes and carried them by their straps, and stepped onto the warm crystals. The heat of the day was still radiating from the ground and it felt good on her feet, like the heated marble floors they had in high-end hotel room bathrooms.
The tall dunes formed a private corridor, a place where she could be alone with the roar of the ocean and the chirping of the gulls. It was quieter tonight than usual. The waves were calm and the gulls absent. Perhaps it was that gray mass out there in the ocean that had silenced the birds. She looked at the sea and it seemed darker than normal, as if whatever was happening out there had pulled all of the shimmer from the water. The ocean looked dead and empty, blacker than the sky above.
She wished she’d worn her trenchcoat, as the first cool breezes rolled off the water toward her. She could not make out the sounds of the party anymore, only the rushing, rolling waves. Joanna stopped to look at a circle of yellow police tape held aloft on metal posts just to her left. The tape was tattered and blowing in the wind; it had been there since January, when an early-morning jogger had found Bill and Maura on the ground. She wasn’t close to either of them, but like the couple had shared an affinity for this place. In the evenings she’d often catch the two of them walking in the high dunes, sometimes perched on the tallest bluff, staring out at the ocean or upward at the bright stars. Joanna made a wide arc around the police line, glancing only sideways at the ragged yellow tape.