Megan writhed under his touch. She moaned and arched her back as his fingers caressed and explored.
Afterward she lay cradled in his arms, under the down comforter, watching the candles burn low in the pewter candlesticks. She hadn’t made a mistake this time. This time everything was right. She belonged here, in his bed, in his arms. She smiled at his even breathing, delighting in the fact that he was asleep and she was awake. It gave her a chance to enjoy him in a more quiet, contemplative fashion. This was nice, she thought. Very, very nice.
Chapter 6
Megan lay still as a clam, barely breathing, contemplating the situation. It was official. She had a lover. She’d spent the night with Patrick Hunter. A ripple of excitement caused an involuntary shiver to rush through her. It was thrilling and scary and awkward. She’d been engaged twice before, but she had never felt the jumble of emotions that were flooding through her now. Her engagements had been sterile and orderly compared to this. And she’d never spent the night.
She was new to this morning – after stuff. What the devil was she supposed to do? She needed a cup of coffee, but her lover was still sound asleep. She had a brief thought of dallying with him in his sleep but dismissed it as unethical. She stretched luxuriously and glanced at the bedside clock. Seven – thirty.
“Pat, wake up. It’s seven – thirty.”
“Mmmm.”
She shook him gently. “You have to get up. You’re late.”
He sighed and rolled onto his stomach.
What did it take to get the man out of bed, a cattle prod? “Pat!”
He burrowed under his pillow.
Megan hopped up and tore the covers off him. She stood motionless for a moment in awed admiration. Lord, he was grogeous. But there was no time for ogling, she thought regretfully. He still wasn’t moving.
“Pat, if you don’t get up I’m going to do something drastic!
“Okay, you asked for it,” she said, returning with a glass of cold water.
She stood poised over his naked body. Where should she spill it? He mumbled in his sleep and rolled onto his back, and Megan closed her eyes and dumped the water.
“Holy-!” he shouted, springing put of bed. “What the hell?”
“I couldn’t get you to wake up. It’s seven thirty.”
“Oh, no.” He groaned. “How could I have slept so long?” He looked down at himself. “What happened?”
“I poured some water on you to wake you up.”
His eyes were wide with incredulity, and his voice cracked. “I’m soaked!”
“It was sort of an accident.”
He dashed for the bathroom. “Get me some orange juice. I’ll be down in five minutes.”
Megan slapped a lump of clay onto her potter’s wheel. She looked at it reverently, imagining the teapot she was about to create, anticipating the sensuous feel of the clay whirling against her fingers.
Ever since she was a little girl she’d had a compulsion to make things. Paintings, poems, mittens, kites. She had a deep love of creation, of watching a blank canvas take on color and form, a length of yarn twist and knot into a knitted cap. When she went to the sea she made sand castles. When she was housebound by a snowstorm she made snowmen. When the wind whipped her hair across her face she made kites.
She didn’t think of herself as an artist or craftswoman. She simply considered herself a maker of things. Now she knew how to make a pie, and it had given her almost as much pleasure as making a teapot.
She drizzled some water over the clay, pressed the foot pedal to turn the wheel, and applied firm pressure to the muddy – looking lump, centering it in the circle of her hands. The slick red – brown clay spun against her palms as she forced it into a conical shape. She pushed with her thumbs and returned it to a squat cylinder.
Megan loved working with clay. It was malleable and of the earth. It felt alive in her hands, and when she stopped the wheel and closed her eyes, she could still feel the warm clay moving across her fingertips.
She drew the clay up with steady hands, expertly shaping it into a globe, using her fingers to form a lip at the top. At last she stopped the wheel and examined her creation with a critical eye. “Pretty nice, huh?” she said to Timmy. He looked at her over the rim of his playpen, clapped his hands, and laughed.
It was warm in the outbuilding – turned pottery – studio, thanks to an electric heater. Outside, a cold rain slathered down in sheets, thundering on the shingled roof, spattering against the two small windows. She started when the door suddenly flew open and Pat appeared. He closed the door, leaned against it, and dripped.
“Is it true turkeys are so stupid they’ll stand out in the rain and drown?” he asked. “That’s how I feel. Like a drowned turkey.”
She rinsed the clay from her hands and wiped them on a paper towel. “How did you manage to get so wet? And what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“I decided to have lunch with you and Tim. As soon as I got on the road the drizzle turned into a downpour. Then I hit a pothole and the window on the driver’s side went ‘clink’ and slid down into the door, never to be seen again. I had to drive all the way with the window down.”
Rain dripped from bangs plastered to his forehead and ran in rivulets down his neck, soaking his shirt. His slacks were wet, though his shoes looked relatively dry. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. “And my heater doesn’t work.”
Megan couldn’t help smiling. Patrick Hunter was especially huggable when he needed rescuing. She lifted Tim from the playpen and held him close while she draped an enormous army – surplus poncho over herself. She ducked under the hood and opened the door. “Come on, turkey, race you to the house.”
Ten minutes later Pat sat at the kitchen table sipping hot coffee, wrapped in Megan’s pink chenille robe while his clothes tumbled in the dryer. He wanted to pull Megan onto his lap and cuddle her, but she was busy opening a can of soup. Today was Tuesday. She’d shared his bed for two nights, and he was obsessed with her. He couldn’t work. He couldn’t eat. He could only remember, and the memories were keeping him in a constant state of euphoric arousal. He was hopelessly, totally, ridiculously in love, he thought. He couldn’t tell if he was happily miserable or miserably happy. It was torture.
She refilled his coffee cup, and they both went still at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. “Probably my neighbor,” Megan said. “She keeps her horse here. Rents the barn and the pasture.”
Two car doors slammed, followed by loud rapping at the front door. Megan answered the door and took a step backward. “Mom!”
The woman flung her arms around Megan and gave her a hug. “We couldn’t stand Thanksgiving in Florida all by ourselves, so here we are! Surprise!”
“Surprise,” Megan mumbled dumbly.
Her burly, red – haired father shoved two enormous suitcases through the door
