The Other Man

It was not good for the baby for her to be so upset. Churi would feel her distress and there’d been enough distress in her short little life. Gwen bit her lip and clamped her hands hard around the steering wheel. She had to resolve this situation, fast, come to terms with the avalanche of memories and emo-tions that threatened to take over. She needed to be calm. For her own sake, for Churi’s sake. She needed to slow down.

She slowed down, realizing she was on the main road out of town, not even knowing how she’d gotten there. Oh, Lord, her dentist appointment! Too late now. Never mind. She was in no shape to sit in a dentist’s chair—quiet, docile, her mouth open, sterile instruments and gloved fingers probing her teeth. She might bite off a finger, or scream. They’d carry her away in a straitjacket. She groaned. A little Valium might not be a bad idea, dentist or no dentist.

It was not a conscious decision to go to the small cove, but an unknown force propelled her there. She parked the car off the road, close to the bushes. The narrow trail was still there, hidden by tangled growth, and muddy from the rains. She clambered down toward the small crescent of deserted beach strewn with debris the waves had tossed up onto the sand the night before. She took off her shoes and dug her toes in the cool sand, wondering why she had come back here now after all these years. Why she was opening herself up to memories that might be better left hidden.

They’d made love on this beach, in the silver light of the moon, with soft breezes cooling their heated bodies. Nights of magic and romance and love.

For a moment she fought the urge to flee, then slowly she lowered herself in the sand and drew up her knees. It was just the way it had been so many years ago: the same sand, the same ocean, the same rocks.

Nothing was the same.

The wind swept her hair back from her face and she closed her eyes, smelling the salty air, hearing the screech of sea gulls. She tried to think of peaceful things. The wind felt good. It came across miles of ocean, from tropical islands with beautiful flowers and palm trees. Hawaii, maybe.

It didn’t work. She wasn’t in some tropical paradise. She was here, in Oregon, a paradise in its own right with its magnificent wild coast, its ma-jestic, rugged mountains and deep, verdant forests.

And Aidan Carmichael. Aidan Carmichael whom she’d loved so passionately a long time ago.

Aidan in the summer house. Just down the road. She should go see him and get the madness out of her system. Maybe this sort of madness was per-fectly normal. After all, he’d been her first true love. He’d been the first man she’d ever made love to and that sort of thing left an impression on a girl’s psyche and soul, or so the books said. Usually a bad one, according to statistics.

But it hadn’t been bad for her. For her it had been magical.

He’d been caring and loving and gentle. She pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyes. It was better not to think about this now. It was better to leave it buried like a wonderful treasure—to know it was there, but not to look at it. To leave it hidden in the shadows of the past.

A strand of hair blew across her mouth and she wiped it away. It had been a shock to see him again. Of course it had been, but she could get over it, surely. She was not eighteen any longer. All she had to do was go talk to him and it would be clear that the past was the past and what had been then was over now.

He was a different man now, famous in his field, older, different. And she was different, so different from that frightened, insecure girl she had once been. Talking to him would exorcise the ghosts of the past, the memories, the feelings. He was a stranger now with a life of which she was no part. Once she’d spent a few minutes with him it would become clear that nothing was left of the past and her peace of mind would be restored.

She got to her feet before her courage failed her, clambered up the rocky trail to the place where she had parked her car.

Down the road she went, her heart in her throat, the wind whipping at her hair. Please, please, she prayed. Make all this go away. Make me not feel all these feelings. Please give me back my peace of mind.

She stopped at the narrow path that led to his house hidden in the woods. The weathered wooden mailbox was overgrown with morning glory, the name only barely legible on the side.

She lowered her head on the steering wheel, swamped with trepidation. What if his wife was there? What if…What would she say to him? I just came to see that I’m really not affected by you anymore. You have changed. I have changed. Life goes on. That’s the way it should be.

I came to say I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

“Gwen?”

She jerked her head up, heart turning over. Aidan stood by the side of her car, looking down at her. He was bare-chested, wearing only shorts and running shoes, and every inch of his brown ex-posed skin gleamed with perspiration. His broad chest was lightly covered with dark hair and he was breathing hard. His sleek, muscled body was the picture of male vitality and strength, exuding a rugged, elemental virility. She smelled the scent of pine and tangy sea air and the earthy scent of warm, damp skin.

He wiped his forehead with a blue-and-white striped sweatband wound around his wrist. “Here we meet again,” he said, and his deep voice stroked her nerves and tingled through her blood.

Her throat went dry. She swallowed, unable to produce a sound, knowing she was staring at him wide-eyed, looking stupid, her hair wild and wind-blown. She must look like a madwoman. She felt like a madwoman.

His eyes swept over her red convertible, his face faintly mocking. “Nice car,” he said, his voice carefully bland.

Nice car was an understatement, of course. It was a luxurious, expensive vehicle, a dream come true for many people. Marc had given it to her for her birthday two years ago. She hadn’t asked for it. It had never occurred to her to want a luxury sports car. And she’d never wanted the expensive jewelry and beautiful presents Marc was always giving her. “Please,” she’d say time and time again, “you don’t need to give me all these expensive things. It’s not me, Marc. You already give me everything I need.” Once, he’d looked at her with eyes full of dark emotion. “Really?” he’d asked, and her heart had constricted at the anguished tone in his voice. Even now the memory made her heart ache.

He had not stopped giving her gifts.

“Have some fun,” he had said when he’d pre-sented her with the Porsche. “Live a little.”

She remembered the words, but she couldn’t re-member his face. Panic surged through her. She couldn’t remember his face! How could she not re-member the face of the man to whom she’d been married for more than ten years? All she saw was Aidan—the light eyes in the dark face, the square, stubbled chin, the hard chest. All she was aware of was the disastrous effect he was having on her nervous system and the terrible hunger deep inside her.

“Something wrong?” Aidan asked.

She swallowed again, glancing away at her hands, trembling in her lap, her tongue paralyzed. She shook her head.

“I need something to drink,” he went on when she remained silent. “Come on up and join me.” Matter of fact. Casual. As if she were a friend, a neighbor. Yet behind the calm words she sensed a subtle command. He was used to having his way, to be obeyed. There was a sense of authority about him that seemed more pronounced than she re-membered. It was there in the way he held his body, the enigmatic face, the cool look in his eyes.

She nodded, not sure why. One part of her wanted to run, the other part wanted to do as he suggested. Her hand trembled as she put the car into drive and turned into the path, following Aidan as he jogged up to the house. Powerful legs, broad shoulders. He was a well-constructed running ma-chine, well-proportioned. She watched the smooth movement of his muscles beneath the tanned skin of his back and legs and felt her mouth go dry. Why couldn’t she have found him wearing baggy sweats?

She parked the car by the side of the house. Aidan opened the door for her and with a sweeping gesture indicated the back door of the house that led into the kitchen. The front door was never used, she remembered, only when strangers rang the bell.

The big, eat-in kitchen had changed little. It was light and bright with casual but expensive wooden furniture and was updated with the latest appli-ances. Not your average summer cottage this was, furnished with castoffs and attic furniture. Only the best for the Carmichaels. How awed and impressed she’d been by the family’s wealth when she’d been younger. How young and unsophisticated she had been…Sometimes, looking back, it amazed her how much she had changed, how much she had matured.

The windows had a view of wooded, rugged rocks jutting out into the wide expanse of ocean. She heard the call of sea gulls and the roaring of the waves.

He stood by the sink and splashed water on his face and neck, then dried off with a flowered kitchen towel he pulled out of a drawer.

“You look different,” she said, knowing she sounded inane, saying it just to break the awkward silence.

He shrugged as he filled two tall glasses with ice and water. “So do you.”

Of course she did. She was twelve years older. And a lifetime wiser. She searched her mind to think of something else to say. “Where were you working, before coming here? Bangladesh, still?”

“No, Ecuador. I left Bangladesh three years ago.” He handed her one of the glasses.

He gulped down the entire glass of water, then refilled it. She watched his hands work the tap. Big hands capable of gentle touch. Swiftly, she forced the thought away.

He turned back to her, regarding her with un-fathomable eyes. “Why did you come here?” he asked casually, tipping back his glass and drinking more water.

The question she dreaded. “I…” She gestured helplessly, scrambling for words, for a light touch. “I suppose just out of ordinary curiosity.” She managed a breezy smile. “To see how you’d fared after all these years.”

He cocked one dark eyebrow. “Really?” A single word, a thousand hidden meanings.

She sipped at her water. “Why are you staying here?” she asked. “Vacation?”

He pushed his damp hair away from his forehead. “No. I’m here to finish a book about my research project. Then I’m going back to Ecuador.” He placed his empty glass back on the counter.

“Are you ever planning to come back home for good?”

He leaned lazily against the counter, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Not a great need for tropical pediatrics in the temperate Northwest, is there?” Faint amusement in his voice.

She shrugged lightly. “No. But I suppose you could teach or write, or both.”