Summer's Freedom Read online

  “Trust your instincts, Maggie.”

  She looked at him. His dark hair was disheveled, his shirt rumpled at the shoulders. The moment could have been awkward, but there was something so comfortable about him that the sudden, explosive intensity of their kiss seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  He smoothed a wisp of her hair away from her face. “I haven’t kissed anyone in a very long time, not like that.” His voice rumbled almost below register. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away.”

  Did that mean he would have kissed anyone that way? Maggie looked at her hands, creeping nervousness easing in behind her passion. She knew she wouldn’t have responded like that to just anyone. No man had ever smelled and tasted so exquisitely perfect.

  As if he sensed the direction of her thoughts, Joel lifted her hand and pressed the back of it to his cheek. “There’s something very special about you, Maggie. Maybe about us. Don’t fight it.”

  She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe this strong and gentle man was what he seemed to be, but the power of her own reactions told her it was just too dangerous to give him that much of herself—not yet. “Passion—desire—isn’t all that uncommon,” she said, drawing her hand back. “And I have a fifteen-year-old daughter. I have to be a good example.”

  “What are we doing that would be a bad example? Sharing an afternoon? Kissing in the storm?” He sighed. “Whatever you’re afraid of, I wouldn’t have torn away your clothes and taken you on the bench.”

  It wasn’t, Maggie thought darkly, that she was afraid of what they had been doing. The problem lay more with what she’d wanted them to be doing, but a team of a hundred horses couldn’t have dragged that admission from her. “Frankly,” she continued, “it doesn’t seem wise to get mixed up with a next-door neighbor,” Maggie continued. “If we end up hating each other, life could get pretty uncomfortable.”

  He laughed. “I’ll move if that happens,” he said. “I promise.” With a boyish grin, he nudged her with an elbow. “We’ll take it as slow as you need to go, okay?”

  How was she supposed to resist those dazzling blue eyes, those impish dimples? Almost against her will, she smiled in return. “Okay.”

  “Now,” he said, settling comfortably against the back of the bench, his arms spread to either side of him, his legs stretched out in front of him, “tell me about Samantha. You don’t seem old enough to have a teenager.”

  “No. I married her father when I was nineteen. Sam was five. Her mother had died.” She paused, remembering the long, lonely years of her marriage. “Partly he married me so that she could have a mother, and that part worked out pretty well. He’s always traveled constantly, and when we got divorced, it was natural that Samantha continue to live with me, so that she’d have some stability in her life.”

  “Does she still see him?”

  Amiably, Maggie nodded. “She’ll spend six weeks with him as soon as school is out, and whenever he blows into Denver for a while, she visits him. They have a good relationship, even if it is a little different.”

  “You love her.”

  “She’s my daughter,” Maggie said simply.

  Joel seemed to absorb this for a while, then asked, “Are you ever jealous of her natural mother?”

  “Not at all.” She told him about the photographic display she had taken Samantha to the week before. “All week Samantha’s been shooting film of everything from wooden spoons to the lace on the curtains. It thrilled her when I ran one of the photos she took in the Wanderer.”

  “That’s great. Does she have any talent?”

  “Naturally I think she does.” Maggie smiled. “If you want an objective opinion, you’ll have to ask someone else.”

  The rain trickled off suddenly, then stopped. “Well, that’s it for the rain today,” Joel said.

  “We should get back,” Maggie said. “Samantha will be wondering where I am.”

  He nodded and stood up, extending a hand to Maggie. When she stood, he didn’t move for a moment, then brushed her hair from her face gently. “I had a nice time with you today, Maggie.” He paused, his eyes lazily touching each section of her face. “I’d like to see you again.”

  Carried away by his nearness, enveloped by his natural scent and the power of his eyes, Maggie simply nodded.

  It wasn’t until later, with her hands in sudsy dishwater after dinner, that the spell he’d cast wore off sufficiently for Maggie to realize she still knew next to nothing about Joel Summer. Which meant she still didn’t have a way to manage him, classify him.

  There was nothing that made her more nervous.

  Chapter 5

  Although there had been several demonstrations at record stores around the city through the week, none of them had resulted in violence, and Maggie had chosen to ignore the entire problem in that week’s paper. Mail had trickled off, and what seemed to be happening was that the speed rockers were ignoring demonstrations.

  Friday morning, Maggie was finally free to concentrate on an edition with some fun—the end-of-school celebration. It was always one of the biggest issues of the year, highlighting fashions and entertainment. She would run the list of concerts for the summer and pinpoint the best upcoming movies. “Sharon,” she called across the newsroom, where her photographer/assistant editor was blocking out a page with blue pencil. “Where are the concert lists?”

  Sharon straightened, sticking her pencil into the braids swept to the top of her head. “I saw them come in but haven’t had a chance to look them over.” She riffled through a stack of mail. “Here they are.” She also withdrew a long white envelope. “You have a letter here from Mitchell, did you know that?”

  “It took him long enough.” Mitchell was Maggie’s longtime pen pal, a liaison established when Maggie’s brother had been in prison. Galen’s sentence had been a short one, but his friend Mitchell had not been so lucky. Maggie had been writing him for almost seven years.

  Sharon passed over the sheaf of concert appearances and the thick letter from Mitchell. His envelopes were distinctive, always decorated with exquisite, tiny drawings—forest scenes and oceanside gatherings without people, only creatures of earth and sea and sky. Today’s envelope showed a bright yellow butterfly with spots of blue on its wings, floating on a current of wind. A rise of mountains gave the address, which was written in Mitchell’s extraordinary hand, its background. In flowing script at the bottom of the drawing was written, “The Great Spirit, the Creator, Flashing light through all the heaven…”

  “If you ever get tired of writing that guy,” Sharon said, looking over Maggie’s shoulder, “pass him on to me. Every time one of his letters comes here, it’s like a sunrise.” She frowned at the lines written below the drawing. “A man who quotes Longfellow is the man for me.”

  “Did you have to memorize The Song of Hiawatha?” Maggie asked with a smile. “‘By the shores of Gitche Gumee…’” She put the letter away in her jacket pocket to enjoy later. “Sam read it recently.”

  “How’s it going with her new boyfriend, by the way?”

  Maggie shook her head. “We’re talking love here. Since Sam’s restriction was lifted Monday, he’s called every day and he walks her home from the bus stop.” She smiled. “It’s kind of sweet.”

  “Is he nice?”

  “As a matter of fact, he seems like a pretty good kid.” She paused. David seemed to really care about Sam, showing a tenderness that was rare for so young a boy. “He has nice manners and he works like thirty hours a week as a busboy and dishwasher at Denny’s.”

  “Shows initiative,” Sharon said with approval. “I agree.” She looked at her friend ruefully. “It’s just so sudden,” she said. “And she’s your baby.”

  Maggie nodded. “And she’s my baby,” she echoed. It was still a surprise to Maggie that she’d had any reservations at all about any teenager on the sole basis of his appearance. But she had. With a bitter twist of her lips, she said, “You know, my dad was such a fanatic about long h
air that he used to beat my brother constantly about his hair. He finally wrestled Galen down in the kitchen and hacked it all off with a pair of sewing scissors.”

  Sharon shook her head in sympathy.

  “That was when he ran away. Didn’t see him again for five years.”

  “And now he’s working in one of the roughest detention centers in New Mexico, trying to work miracles with kids who’ve got nothing left to lose,” Sharon said. “That means something.”

  Maggie took a breath. “I think Samantha’s David reminds me of Galen.” Shaking her head, she pushed her reading glasses up on her nose to examine the concert schedules. “Good music at Redrocks this year,” she commented, “though I doubt the kids will think so. Maybe you and I can catch a concert or two.”

  With her usual grace, Sharon let the previous subject of conversation slide away unnoticed. “We say that every summer.”

  “I know, but aren’t you tired of the same old things going on all the time?”

  “Sure I am.” She settled herself comfortably on the edge of Maggie’s desk. “But a concert—“She broke off with a shrug. “What I’d love is a trip to Jamaica and a mad encounter with somebody who whispers sweet nothings in my ear.”

  Maggie grinned, leaning her chin on her fist. “Mmm,” she murmured, imagining a tropical breeze on her face, the smell of salt water heavy in the air. “Go on.”

  “Or,” Sharon murmured in a barely audible voice, thick with appreciation, “I’d take this coming in the door right now.”

  Maggie glanced up to see Joel filling the doorway, an enigmatic smile gracing his dark face. “Joel!” she said, and stood up, knocking three pens to the floor in the process. “What brings you here?”

  “I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought you might like to have some lunch.” His smile stretched into a grin. “I have it on good authority that you’re pretty fond of burgers.”

  He looked so good, Maggie thought. She liked the ease with which he carried his body, the casual comfort he seemed to feel in any situation. “I’d love to. Sharon, would you like to join us?”

  A sparkle in Sharon’s almond-shaped eyes gleamed as she answered. “Oh, no, you guys run along.”

  “Okay, then.” Maggie took off her glasses with an effort to appear poised and slipped her light jacket over her shoulders.

  As she and Joel were about to depart, Sharon spoke up. “Uh, Maggie, I just saw this,” she said, waving one of the concert lists. “Guess who’s going to be in Colorado Springs the end of next month?”

  Maggie sighed and unconsciously touched the scar dividing her left eyebrow. “Proud Fox.”

  Sharon lifted her chin in confirmation. “Run it or not?”

  “We don’t have much choice, ethically.”

  The assistant editor nodded. “You got it.”

  * * *

  Outside, Joel took her hand. “I missed you this week,” he said, giving her fingers a squeeze. “I’ve been working hard.”

  “Me, too.” At his truck, he opened the door for her, then went around and got inside. A breeze carried his nearly oriental aftershave to her nostrils, a scent as exotic and mysterious as the man himself. “I’m going to drive to a very public place, and we’ll eat our lunch in the company of lots of other people, but before I get there, I’d like one small kiss,” he said as he took her face in his hands. He kissed her quickly, then once more, slowly, when she didn’t protest.

  His lips were what she remembered, sensual and firm; his wide mouth a generous terrain she wanted to explore. She swallowed as he pulled away to start the engine. “Today, it’s your turn,” she said.

  “My turn for what?”

  “To talk about yourself.”

  “All right,” he agreed, pulling into traffic. “Where shall I start?”

  With your secrets, she thought. Aloud, she said, “Tell me about your wife.”

  He shot a glance at her. “Don’t mince words, Maggie,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “Just jump in anywhere.”

  “Sorry.” She winced in apology. “I’m not known for my tact.”

  For a moment, he was silent, then he licked his lower lip quickly. “And I take myself too seriously most of the time.” He smiled suddenly.

  Maggie grinned, relieved that he hadn’t taken offense.

  “I met Nina in high school,” he said. “We got married when we graduated, and she followed me all over the country while I went to school.” He shifted gears and pulled around a slow-moving bus. “She ended up costing me everything.”

  Maggie remembered his admission that he’d not kissed anyone in a long time. That, coupled with the fleeting bitterness that flooded his eyes in unguarded moments, told her that one of the things his wife had cost him was his heart.

  “I lost my trust with Paul,” she volunteered suddenly. “It’s been very hard for me to trust men since our marriage.”

  “Did he—“Joel asked, floundering for a polite way to ask the question.

  Maggie laughed without bitterness. “Yes,” she filled in for him. “He had a woman in every port, and I didn’t know for a long time.”

  “That was Nina,” he said. “The thing that killed me later was that my friends all knew. I felt like such a fool.”

  “I felt like that at first. Then I decided to just let it all go.”

  “Except that you can’t trust anyone.”

  Maggie nodded as they turned into the parking lot of a hamburger stand. Joel shut off the engine and paused. “Well, maybe we both get another chance.”

  She met his serious look. “Maybe,” she said, lifting one shoulder.

  The crowds that gathered for lunch made further conversation impossible until they had ordered and found a table. Over a sloppy double cheeseburger, fries and a large soft drink, Maggie asked him about his sisters, his parents, his childhood. His replies painted a portrait of a warm, working-class background, where books and conversation were placed at a high premium. His sisters all lived in Denver, had made good marriages and borne children and even managed two careers between the three of them.

  “My father died a few years ago,” he said, “but my mom lives in Denver, to be close to my sisters and their children.”

  “I got the impression you were raised in the Springs.”

  He nodded, blotting his mouth with a paper napkin before speaking again. “She moved up there three or four years ago to be close to her grandbabies—of which she can never have enough.” He grinned, eyes flashing with a wicked gleam. “If she met you, she’d have us married and making some more for her in a week.”

  Maggie never blushed, and she didn’t now, but for once she saw a use for it. “You’re terrible,” she managed.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice. I can still reduce my sisters to puddles of giggles in seconds.” He trapped one of her ankles between both of his playfully. “I can also untie shoelaces with my toes,” he teased, grinning. “Would you like to see?”

  “I don’t have shoelaces.” She measured him over the table. “I feel sorry for your sisters.”

  He nodded cheerfully.

  She munched on a French fry. Her ankle was firmly wedged between his, and it made her smile. Men tended to treat women as either something to conquer or something mysterious. Joel did neither. He was the kind of man who would take everything about a woman in stride, the kind of man who could debate birth control choices without batting an eye.

  At this last example, she ducked her head, embarrassed at how often sensual thoughts assaulted her when she was in his presence.

  As if he read her mind, he said suddenly, “Go out with me tonight.”

  The words opened a new vista in Maggie’s mind, giving her a glimpse of a landscape she’d never seen. Then she remembered David. “I can’t. My daughter’s boyfriend is coming over for dinner.”

  He lifted her hand and brushed her palm with his fingertips. “Another night then.”

  “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  In sp
ite of the fact that she pretended not to cook, Maggie did have one specialty—Mexican food. There was something, she thought late that afternoon, about the smell of the chilies and the color of the ingredients that made preparing it less odious than other foods.

  Sam planned to bring David home with her after school. Maggie had rented several movies at Sam’s request and had even, much to her own surprise, dusted and vacuumed the living room, finding pleasure in an ordinarily irritating job. She liked her home, she decided once again. The furniture was simple—contemporary couches and television and stereo mixed with an antique trunk, sewing machine table and radio. One wall of the living room held shelves filled with books and magazines, photographs and memorabilia.

  When the house was finished and dinner was bubbling in the oven, she took out Mitchell’s letter to read over a cup of coffee.

  All her life, she’d had pen pals. Some were friends left behind when her father was transferred, some were people Maggie met via the huge network of dedicated letter writers she’d stumbled upon at the age of thirteen when she’d sent for a list of pen pals. Her letters had gone as far as England, Japan and Germany, and had served as a time of respite in an unhappy adolescence.

  Of all the pen pals she’d ever had, Mitchell was the most unusual and the most entertaining. She rarely mentioned him to anyone because of the furor that arose, the cautions and worry the correspondence inevitably drew.

  She understood the objections—if it hadn’t been Galen who’d fostered the friendship, Maggie wouldn’t have adopted a prison pen pal. In the beginning, she’d been leery of it anyway.

  When Mitchell, in his first letter, had put forth the rules for their letters, her mind had been eased. No personal tidbits, he said. No photos, no descriptions, no backgrounds. They would discuss books and ideas, politics and religion. Period.

  In seven years, he’d never broken the rule. What he needed, as Galen had insisted in the beginning, was a place to exercise his considerable intellect.

  This letter was no different. He’d been analyzing the works of William Faulkner, and today the discussion centered around Light in August, one of Maggie’s favorites. She’d read the book as a teenager, but as she read Mitchell’s descriptions of scenes he’d particularly enjoyed, details of the novel flooded back into her mind. Funny, she thought, smiling as she refolded the sheaf of papers. They always seemed to be struck by the same details in books but never came up with the same interpretation of the material. She would have a lot to say about Faulkner in her next letter.