The Time in Between by Kristen Ashley
I shook my head in his hands. “Please don’t do this.”
“You get it. You look at me and you get it. Believe in that, Cady. Believe in what you see. Believe in me.”
“Stop it.” My voice was now trembling as was my body. “There’s nothing to get. There’s nothing to believe.”
“There’s something.”
I wrapped my fingers around his wrists and put pressure on to pull them away, but his hands didn’t move.
“You’ve been so nice, so sweet, so cool about everything, but you told me yourself I need to stay on the right—”
“Look in my eyes and tell me you don’t believe.”
I looked in his beautiful eyes, right there, so close, the breath of his words rushing across my lips. And looking into those eyes I remembered thinking about giving our kids those eyes the first night I met him, and the trembling increased.
“You’re scaring me,” I whispered.
“You’ll never be safer with anyone than you are with me.”
I could oh so totally, easily fall into believing in him.
But that was hard to believe.
“But, Tony,” I gave his wrists a shake and they didn’t budge an inch, “you scare me.”
That was when, from inches away, I watched the shutters fly up on his eyes, brilliant, bright light beamed out, blinding me so bad, I blinked.
Then his mouth was on mine.
I was going to be manager at the store.
I was going to take classes at a community college.
I was going to be somebody.
I tried to pull away but his fingers slid back to curl into my scalp and his mouth opened over mine, his tongue touching my lips.
What happened next, maybe it was reflex.
Maybe it was instinct.
Maybe it was recklessness overwhelming me again, telling me I had this one chance, this one shot at this one beautiful adventure and I should take it.
Maybe it was because he was Tony and I was Cady and he was not wrong.
There was something.
Whatever the reason that made me do it, I opened my mouth, his tongue slid gently inside and it happened.
I tasted him.
He tasted of beer and old trucks and dark nights and bright days and holding hands and playful teases and crooked grins and shining eyes and man and musk and sex and a million, billion other things that made Tony that I hadn’t yet discovered, and I couldn’t have stopped my tongue from touching his in my need, my hunger, my yearning to have more.
To have it all.
My fingers tightened on his wrists not to push him away but to hold him right there, and he felt it. Making a rough noise in my mouth, he slanted his head, took the kiss deeper and gave me more.
And with his kiss, he filled me. He warmed me. My breasts swelled, my nipples hardened, my toes curled, my skin tingled, between my legs thrummed, my heart beat wild in my chest, and it wasn’t all about sex.
It was about that moment. Me being fully present in that moment. The only one of its kind we’d ever have.
Our first kiss. Our beginning. The beginning of us which was the beginning of everything.
He broke the kiss and I made an involuntary mew at the loss of his tongue, his taste, that moment, but he kept his lips where they were, light and beautiful.
My eyes fluttered open and his were so close, our noses resting along each other’s, our eyelashes actually brushed.
And I looked into his eyes and I knew what he knew I knew. I knew what I got but I still didn’t understand, even after that kiss.
I knew I would walk to the ends of the earth with Tony Wilson. I’d jump off a cliff holding his hand. I’d cut for him. I’d bleed for him.
And I suspected one day I’d probably be willing to die for him.
But after that kiss, this didn’t scare me.
With him right there, nothing else mattered, nothing else even existed.
This was simply where I was supposed to be.
No matter what.
He blinked and our lashes brushed again, bringing my focus to his gaze that was not boring into mine, not burning, but resting there, holding mine because there was nothing in the world I’d want more than to look into his eyes, and I saw right then he felt the same way.
“There’s something,” he whispered.
Yes.
There was something.
And that something felt like everything.
“Promise, Cady,” he continued whispering. “Stick with me, no matter what.”
There was no other answer to give him than the one I gave.
“I promise, Tony.”
Something flickered in his eyes that was uneasy when I said his name, but before it could make me feel the same, the pads of his fingers dug into my scalp, his mouth took mine, his tongue slid inside and I was all in.
No matter what.
He Didn’t
Present day . . .
“OKAY . . . OKAY . . . OKAY . . . HOLY CAH-RAP, that’s way more beautiful than the pictures.”
There was nothing I could do but smile as I drove Kath up to the lighthouse.
It was August. The sun was shining. Fluffy white clouds dotted the bright blue sky. My pristine white fence ringed the sloping green grass with the intermittent gray rocks poking through along my property. And the outbuildings had all been painted so their dazzling white and glossy black trim matched the perfection of the lighthouse with only their warm red roofs being disparate.
Months ago, after the altercation with Coert and after Kath had calmed me down, we’d made a plan.
I had bookings in inns and B&Bs and I had a mission.
Restore the lighthouse. Live there, if not happily ever after, then contentedly ever after.
Coert had been out of my life for a very long time and frankly, the time he’d been in it had not been long (it had just been eventful).
He wanted me to avoid him?
That I could do.
What I wasn’t going to do was let him break me.
Not again.
So I honored my bookings and I watched the roofs go on and the windows go in and the studio begin to be transformed.
I did this finally enjoying Magdalene.
I went shopping in town and at what I learned were new shops at the jetty. I found a shack on the wharf that made such good coffee I went back and learned the man in the shadowed interior also made excellent seafood omelets. I had lunch at the Lobster Market in town. I had dinner at a place that was recommended by a cashier at Wayfarer’s that was a town over called Breeze Point. I got salads or sandwiches on more than one occasion at Weatherby’s Diner.
I also went on a whale watching tour (we didn’t see any whales but I was loaded and I lived in Maine, I could try again a hundred times until I saw one).
I went down to Portland to explore. I went up to Bar Harbor because I heard it was beautiful and artsy, and it was, so I bought a bunch of stuff for the lighthouse, the studio and the apartment over the garage.
I went to Augusta to meet Paige and decide all things interior decorating.
I even went down to Boston, because in all the traveling I’d done with Patrick, we’d never been there and I’d always wanted to see Old Ironsides and eat real clam chowder. Not to mention walk the Freedom Trail, see the Old North Church, go to Lexington and Concord and be where the shot was fired that was heard round the world. And as sad as it would be, I wanted to visit Salem and soak in that history. I had even more reason to go in order to hit Harvard, take selfies and send them to Verity and Dex in aid of Dex harassing his sister.
But once my bookings ran out, even though I saw Coert nowhere (thank God), I turned tail and ran home, giving myself the excuse I needed to get my stuff because I’d be able to move in at least to the studio in just weeks, and Mike said we were going car shopping in Denver or he was flying out to Maine to help me find a vehicle, no ifs, ands or buts.
The real reason was that I needed the family to p
And now the time was right to come back. I didn’t have to stay at the inn or find anywhere else because the studio was done. They’d begun work on the lighthouse so in a few weeks I could move in, move in and they would finish with the apartment over the garage after I was in my real new home.
Kath had come with me, citing that she just could not wait to see it all, but I knew she did it to make sure I was all good there before she’d be leaving and not seeing me for months.
Walt had shared that Paige had “set the place.” He’d also mailed me a remote to the gate so right then, as I drove up the lane, I hit the button on the remote on the visor of my new Jaguar SUV and watched the gate start to swing open.
“Oh my God, Cady, this place is perfection,” Kath breathed.
She was right.
This I could do, I thought as we rolled in when the gates opened.
This beauty that Patrick gave me. Verity (and then Dex) coming up some weekends. The family out for Christmas. Spring breaks. Summer holidays.
And when they weren’t around, I could help at the Historical Society.
I could volunteer at an animal shelter.
I could garden.
I could cook.
I could read.
I was forty-one years old and had forty years (I hoped) ahead of me of, essentially, retirement where I could just sit back, enjoy “the kids” and do whatever pleased me.
Most people would kill for that opportunity.
So Coert was in town, and Kath wanted me to go up north to visit my brother when she was here so she could be close when he treated me like dirt.
I’d lived through worse.
Much worse.
My mother had frozen to death, for God’s sake.
And I’d had to watch Patrick waste away.
If Coert wanted me to avoid him, fine. This wouldn’t be hard. It was a small town but my lighthouse was miles away.
It would be fine.
It would all be fine.
Because I had that.
I stopped in front of the garage and Kath and I got out. I saw her head was tilted back, her attention focused on the beauty of the lighthouse.
I looked to the left, beyond the garage to where the studio was.
There was nothing happening there. No men walking in or out. The activity was at the lighthouse.
But the new windows were shining in the sun in a way the whole structure looked like a beacon, summoning me to safety.
“Nice ride.”
At these words I turned my head and saw Walt strolling toward the car.
“It all looks fabulous,” I called.
“You haven’t seen nothing yet,” he replied, looking to Kath and dipping his chin to her.
“Walt, this is my sister, Kathy. Kath, this is my contractor, Walt,” I introduced when Walt stopped at Kath.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
“Same,” he responded then asked, “Your first time?”
“Yup,” she answered. “I live in Denver.”
“Bet you just rearranged your vacation schedule,” he guessed.
She gave him a big smile. “Yup.”
“Wanna see your home that’s about fifty yards away from home?” Walt asked me.
“Yup,” I replied.
He chuckled then threw out an arm. “Lead the way.”
I led the way, trying not to run. I knew all that was in it, obviously, since I’d chosen it, but I’d eventually asked Walt to stop sending pictures because it was looking so amazing, I didn’t want the surprise reveal of it all together to be spoiled.
When we walked in, I found that was the right call.
Downstairs was bright whites (walls, slouchy furniture and cupboards in the kitchen), gray carpet (living room), parquet floors (everywhere else), bold blue toss pillows, lush but trimmed plants in white pots giving a dose of healthy green, the common areas seemed big, open, breezy and amazing.
The bedrooms and bath upstairs couldn’t be more different.
One bedroom had busy pink, old fashioned wallpaper with a recurring pastoral scene against cream and heavy colonial furniture, gingham and ruffled bedclothes, all of this screaming New England. The other was calm, light grays, taupes, blues and greens with a padded headboard upholstered in a heavy damask of delicate colors, matelassé covers on the bed. The pink bedroom had a chintz armchair and ottoman with a reading light over it and side table stuffed in a corner, the other bedroom had a white loveseat with gray trim and toss pillows in damask matching the headboard against one wall. And the bathroom had a boxed tub jutting out perpendicular to the painted white wood walls and its original cabinetry that was updated with fresh paint in a dusty cornflower blue and white marble countertops with veins of gray.
The downstairs was spacious and contemporary but cheerful and inviting while the upstairs seemed cozy, busy, overfull and warm.
I loved it. Every inch.
Including the veranda with its curvy, ornate wicker furniture painted cerulean blue with crisp seafoam-green pads and matching side tables and ottomans.
Definitely a place you could sit and enjoy a coffee in the morning or sip a wine of an evening, watch the sea and just . . . be.
Oh yes, I could avoid Coert Yeager here.
I could absolutely avoid him here.
I could love every minute of it.
“So?” Walt prompted as I stood on the veranda and stared at the sea.
Slowly, my eyes turned to him.
“It’s perfection,” I whispered.
His face changed after the words came out and he studied my expression.
He was probably my age, maybe a bit older, looked it, weathered and tan, not unattractive, but he was a durable man, a hardworking man, and he showed it, which made him more attractive.
He’d been friendly and entirely professional in every encounter I’d had with him.
But right then, I watched his face soften and his eyes grow warm with pleasure at my approval and concern at what was not his to know, he just knew it was there.
“I . . . our . . . the . . .” Kath stammered, cleared her throat and said quietly, “We lost the patriarch of our family not too long ago. Cady was particularly close to him.”
“Right,” Walt murmured, looking away in a manner I knew he was giving me privacy.
“We’ll just, uh . . . let you get on with it while we get the boxes in,” Kath said.
“You wanna see where we are with the lighthouse?” Walt asked.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Kath answered for me.
“You want me to send some boys down to help with those boxes?” Walt queried.
I finally piped up. “I . . . yes, that’d be nice. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Okay. I’ll get a couple of the boys and I’ll help myself. If you wanna drive your car closer to the studio, I’ll be back with the guys,” Walt said.
“I’ll do that,” I replied.
He jogged off.
I turned to Kath. “We’ll get the things in then go to Wayfarer’s and get something lovely for dinner tonight.”
“Cheese, bread, pâté and lots of wine. You are not cooking tonight and neither am I. We’re enjoying that.” She jerked her head to the view. “Tomorrow, we can break in that kitchen. You said Paige outfitted it with plates and knives and pots and pans and stuff?”
I nodded.
She grinned. “Then we’re set.”
I wanted to see the pots and pans “and stuff” I’d picked for this space.
But I needed to drive the car around so we could move in the boxes and suitcases, which were almost entirely filled with clothes, shoes, books, DVDs, CDs and photo albums and not much else.
“I’ll get the car and we’ll get started,” I declared.
“And I’ll prepare to ogle cute c
She was calling the pink room because she knew I’d go for the damask room.
God, I just loved her.
“Let’s get cracking,” I said.
She clapped her hands and rubbed them together.
I shot her a smile and walked with a spring in my step to my car.
And we got cracking.
The air had a nip to it, a light breeze was flirting through the sky, I had a belly full of cheese, pâté, bread, wine and too many of the selections of mini-cakes the bakery counter at Wayfarer’s sold individually or, in our case, by the dozen.
The boxes were inside.
The construction workers were long gone.
And I was sitting holding a stylish wineglass filled with an exceptional sauvignon blanc, my behind on a crisp, seafoam-green pad in a fabulous wicker chair on my veranda in Maine next to the best friend I’d ever had and the finest woman I’d ever met in my life.
“I talked to Pat about it.”
I looked from the buttercreams and pinks of the sky painted by the setting sun on the horizon behind us to Kath when she spoke.
“About what?” I asked.
She turned her gaze to me. “About this place. He looked into it.”
I was perplexed. “Looked into what?”
“He says you got it for a song. The renovation is steep but would be worth it any way you cut it. He said it would take years to make it profitable, but as luxury rentals, it’d be hugely popular, so that would eventually happen.”
I was no less perplexed.
“Are you saying you want me to rent out the extra spaces so I’ll have company or something?” I asked.
“I’m saying I saw you in town, and you were good here at the lighthouse, great, actually, happy, nearly skipping. But there you were stressed out, tense and looking over your shoulder a lot.”
I drew in breath, turned my eyes back to the sea and sky and took a sip of wine.
“You’re gonna see him,” she said gently.
“I know,” I told the sea.
“And it’s gonna hurt.”
“I know,” I repeated and looked back to her. “But then it’ll hurt less and less and it won’t happen often anyway. And in the end, I’ll have all of this.” I gestured around me with my wineglass.