Curious, I picked up the other item. It was a black beanie, thick and soft. I recognized it as one Ashley sold in the gallery shop. They were made of cashmere and were warm to wear, not to mention indulgent. I turned it over and lifted the small card attached to it.
Zachary—I found yours on the beach. I know you were wearing it when you found me. Unlike some things, it was damaged beyond repair, even though I tried to mend it for you. Please accept this new one with my gratitude. I won’t give up mending the other. ~MI stared at the message. How had she noticed I was wearing my hat? I hadn’t even thought about the fact I wasn’t wearing it when we arrived home. I was too concerned with her well-being and making sure she was okay. My hat, or lack thereof, never once entered my mind.
I shook my head, confused. I knew exactly what she was saying, yet I didn’t understand why. Why did she want to try and get to know me? Or try and mend me?
I was damaged goods. I had nothing to offer the sweet woman who somehow stirred emotions in me, which I didn’t understand.
My hand fisted the rich cashmere of the beanie as I thought of our passionate kiss and the feel of her mouth beneath mine. I shut my eyes remembering how perfect it felt to hold her in my arms. How I lost myself with her for a brief, wonderful moment.
Then how utterly horrified I was when reality had hit me, yet again.
I looked down at her small gift, feeling torn.
I had to stay away from Megan.
Except, the thought of doing so made me…miserable.* * *For a week it continued. Megan would walk over and leave something on the doorstep. I never knew what time of day she would come or even if she’d indeed appear that day, but I found myself sitting, watching for her arrival. The days she didn’t come felt endless, and I was filled with a sense of longing I couldn’t explain. It felt as if I missed her. Although, when I would see her small figure come into view, I would assess how she was walking, then I would step into the kitchen, hiding from her once again.
She always knocked twice.
I always ignored her.
Still, she always returned.
Elliott would sit in front of the door, his tail thumping out a quiet rhythm as he whined low in his throat. If I was feeling somewhat brave, I would allow him access to the back of the house, where his dog door was; he would push his way through to greet Megan and Dixie on the deck. Megan would sit on the top step and watch them run around the beach or stroke their heads as they sat beside her. She looked so small with her back to the door. I wondered if she knew I watched her; absorbing the enticing sight of her there, her brilliant hair swirling in the wind that kicked up from the ocean. I knew how soft that hair was, and I longed to bury my fingers into her thick tresses again. My body ached to draw her close and feel her flush against me. I wanted to inhale her lovely scent deep into my lungs and taste her mouth with mine. I craved her, yet even as I yearned, as soon as she shifted, I disappeared from sight, for fear she might see me. She always commanded Elliott home and waited until he was back inside, before she and Dixie slowly made their way back across the beach, out of my vision. They were the best and worst moments of my day—I longed for them.
Once she was gone, I would open the door and see what little treasure she had left behind.
A small plate of cookies for me and dog biscuits for Elliott.
A pair of warm socks for after my next “wade” into the water.
A slice of pie to share with Elliott.
Even a bag of my favorite peppermints, although how she knew they were my favorite, I wasn’t sure.
They were small, thoughtful gestures, accompanied by a tiny card with sweet words of friendship and thanks or a short humorous message; always signed M.
As if some other passing angel was leaving gifts and she wanted to be sure I knew which ones were hers.
Today, I opened the door and looked down, fighting a smile. I picked up the small canvas, studying it. It was a very badly done watercolor of the beach with Dixie and Elliott on it—or more like stick figures of them. She even painted the bluff and what I guessed was my house at the top. Turning it over, I let out a chuckle.
Maybe you’d consider a trade? I’d be willing to give this up for Tempest…