All I Want Is You Page 14

  CHRISTY felt like someone masquerading as an artist as she sat behind the folding table Reece Donovan had so kindly loaned her, her jewelry spread out before her in felt-­lined trays. When she and Jack had been setting up on the Coral Cove pier, attaching the little price tags she’d made this afternoon, she’d been excited, hopeful, ready for this. But now that she was just sitting here in a folding lawn chair—­also on loan from Reece—­waiting for something to happen, it wasn’t as easy.

  All around her on the old wooden pier sat picturesque oil paintings of beach scenes and stained glass sun catchers and delicate water color creations—­made by ­people who were clearly more talented than her. She couldn’t help thinking that most of the artists here had created something from nothing, whereas all she’d done was taken pieces of old jewelry and mixed them up a little.

  Still, she tried to enjoy the atmosphere. A man in a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt painted beach umbrellas on pieces of tile to her left, and to her right an elderly woman dipped homemade ice cream into sugar cones from a metal pushcart. Directly across from her, a thirty-­something woman who’d introduced herself as Tamra sold the stained glass pieces Christy had been admiring. Music played from a loudspeaker somewhere—­currently Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours”—­and on the beach in the distance, colorful kites darted about in the evening air, one shaped like a fish catching her eye as it whirled in circles beneath the path of passing seagulls.

  Just then, she flinched at the sight of a dragon-­like figure ambling down the pier—­on a pink leash held by Reece. Christy was still trying to adjust the idea of Fifi as a pet, but she smiled up at Reece anyway, who pulled off the dark, handsome beach bum look with flair.

  After Jack and Reece exchanged greetings, Reece asked, “How are the chairs and tables working out for you?”

  “Perfect,” Christy said. “Thanks again for the loan—­it’s a big help.”

  “Fifi wanted to go out for a walk,” he claimed with a wink, “so we thought we’d come down and say hi.”

  “Well, it’s nice to see a friendly face,” she ad­mitted.

  But Reece just shrugged. “Everybody here is friendly.” And she realized that was true. Well, except maybe for Abner, but she and Jack had had dinner at the Hungry Fisherman again and this time even he had mustered a hello. Albeit while wearing a suede cowboy hat with khakis.

  Just then, Reece glanced over the pier’s railing down to the beach below. “Almost time for Fletcher’s show. Did you happen to catch it last night?”

  She and Jack both turned to look, but Christy couldn’t quite make out what she was observing other than a lean, lanky man with a brown pony­tail assembling what struck her as a portable clothesline.

  “Uh, no,” Jack said, appearing just as baffled. “What’s he do? Hang his sheets out to dry?”

  Reece laughed. “No, it’s a little more entertaining than that. He’s a tightrope walker. Does it here every night. Be sure to watch—­he’s a pretty cool dude.” And with that the owner of the Happy Crab tugged lightly on Fifi’s leash and together they toddled onward.

  As the sun sank toward the horizon, the sky began to blaze pink and gold in the distance. And whereas the foot traffic on the pier had been light so far, now more evening shoppers arrived.

  A woman in a sundress stopped to check out Christy’s jewelry, but she moved on fairly quickly—­and despite herself, Christy’s heart sank a little as the lady walked away. A minute later, what appeared to be a mother and teenage daughter on vacation showed a bit of interest, but then shifted their attention to the ice cream woman and her array of flavors. And after another ­couple of such occurrences, Christy turned to Jack, saying quietly, “I knew it. My stuff isn’t beachy enough—­it doesn’t fit here. It’s not the kind of thing you want to bring home from vacation.”

  Yet he merely gave her a scolding look. “Would you relax? It’s only been a little while. And whatever happens, at least you’re doing what we talked about last night, putting yourself out there.” Though she couldn’t help noticing that for a guy who always seemed totally at ease, he’d stiffened a bit as he’d said that last part—­and she had no idea why.

  But a second later it didn’t matter, at all, because that was when he reached out to rest his hand on her knee beneath the folding table as he said, “You should be proud of yourself. I am.” And the touch tingled all through her.

  Jack meant it. He wasn’t entirely certain it was wise to be squeezing her bare knee, all smooth and freshly tanned, but he was proud of her. Now that he understood her fears, he also knew that sitting here with her jewelry laid in front of her wasn’t as easy as it probably looked to the ­people on the other side of the table.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  And oh shit, I want to kiss her. And that’s bad. Even if, at the very same time, it feels so, so good.

  “Come one, come all, to the greatest show on earth—­or at least on Coral Cove Beach!”

  Jack flinched—­pulling his hand away and sitting up straighter—­at the loud voice suddenly echoing from behind him. But that was probably wise. He looked over his shoulder to see the pony­tailed man speaking through a small megaphone.

  “Prepare to be stunned and amazed as I, Fletcher McCloud, perform amazing feats of skill and daring from atop the high-­wire.” With that, he motioned toward what Jack had previously thought a clothesline, then paused to look at it himself. “Okay, so it’s more of a low wire,” the man added. “But it’s the beach, man, so it’s the best I can do.”

  Jack could tell it was a shtick—­the guy probably said the same words every single night—­but a bunch of kids laughed at the joke and he saw a few of the vacationing adults smile, as well.

  Fletcher McCloud continued gathering an audience until the bulk of the evening shoppers had circled around his tightrope on the sand, and most of the vendors watched from the pier despite the fact, Jack supposed, that most had probably seen his act many times before. He caught sight of Reece and Fifi at the edge of the crowd on the beach.

  “Are you ready to be stunned and amazed?” Fletcher asked the group. Then he dropped to one knee in the sand, playfully addressing a little boy. “Are you ready to be stunned and amazed? Are you?” The child nodded enthusiastically and Jack could already see that the guy had an engaging demeanor that worked with his act. He looked like a throwback to the seventies with his long hair and short beard, but his friendliness made him unintimidating.

  A few seconds later, he climbed an easel ladder he’d opened in the sand, and stepped, barefoot, onto the thin, taut rope. The crowd oohed and aahed as he balanced there and then began to walk, taking slow, careful steps with his arms held out to each side. Jack couldn’t help being impressed—­after all, you saw this kind of thing at the circus, but not usually at the beach, and not usually so close-­up. He watched the other man’s toes bend downward to hug the cord he walked on.

  “That’s really cool,” Christy whispered next to him as they watched the guy walk from one end of the rope to the other.

  “Of course, because I don’t have a high-­wire,” Fletcher then said to the crowd, “I realize I might need to do a little more to stun and amaze you. Which is why I need someone to toss me those bowling pins—­one at a time please.” He pointed to the sand where the pins lay among a pile of props. “That’s right! I’m going to juggle while I walk on this tightrope! Feel free to make sounds of awe.”

  The spectators tittered with laughter, some of them obliging him with “sounds of awe”—­and then they watched Fletcher juggle the pins, after which he then upped the stakes to juggling three knives! Throughout the act, Jack and Christy exchanged glances, both clearly impressed.

  “For my final act, to make sure you leave here stunned and amazed, I’m going to juggle fire!” The audience let out a collective gasp, to which Fletcher responded by laughing and saying, “Nah, I’m just kidding,�
�� producing one more chuckle from the crowd.

  “Except,” he said slowly, holding up one finger while still balanced on the rope, “what if I’m not? What if I’m going to take those very torches lying there in the sand”—­he pointed—­“and light them and juggle them? Sir, would you be so kind as to hand those torches up to me?”

  Once he held he torches, the crowd waited in silence as he pulled a lighter from his pocket and carefully lit each. And then Jack and Christy watched as he did indeed juggle fire! Again, it wouldn’t have been a surprise at the circus, but Jack found himself growing curious about Fletcher McCloud, wondering what a guy like him was doing here.

  When the show ended, Fletcher passed around a large top hat collecting money—­and Jack wanted to add something to it but couldn’t from up on the pier.

  “I wish we could give him something,” Christy said.

  “I’ll walk down and put in a ­couple bucks,” Jack informed her, then headed for the sand.

  By the time he reached Fletcher, the crowd had dispersed and Jack opened his wallet and drew out a twenty, adding it to the evening’s tips.

  “Very generous, my friend,” Fletcher McCloud told him appreciatively.

  “Your show was great,” Jack said in reply.

  To which Fletcher answered, “Your girlfriend’s pretty.”

  And Jack balked slightly.

  Fletcher just chuckled, and went on. “I’ve done this show a million times and I’m a skilled multi-­tasker—­I can ­people-­watch while I do it. For me, that’s the best part.”

  Now Jack gave him an easy grin since he, too, could appreciate the art of ­people-­watching. Though he felt the need to inform him, “Well, she’s not my girlfriend. Exactly.” Since at this point, he didn’t know what she was.

  “She should be,” Fletcher McCloud said as certainly as if he were announcing the sun was about to set.

  And Jack blinked, intrigued enough to ask, “What makes you say so?”

  Fletcher McCloud narrowed his gaze, looked introspective. “I just get feelings about ­people sometimes. And my feelings are usually right. Plus you two look at each other a lot. The show’s out here, on the tightrope, but you two keep looking at each other instead.”

  Huh. Jack never would have made that observation, but he couldn’t deny it, either. Yet something about the truth in it compelled him to change the subject. So he pointed to the tightrope. “How do you do that?” he asked.

  “Balance,” Fletcher replied.

  And Jack laughed.

  But Fletcher said, “No, I’m serious. Life is all about balance. And walking on the tightrope is really just a metaphor for life. It’s . . . a balance of putting yourself at risk and keeping yourself upright at the same time. It’s about the discipline to teach yourself to do the impossible. Anybody can walk on a tightrope if they’re brave enough and dedicated enough. Anybody can learn to do the impossible—­if they want it bad enough. I just wanted it bad enough. So what’s impossible for you?”

  “Trust.” The word popped out of Jack’s mouth before he’d even realized it. Damn, how had this guy drawn that from him so quickly?

  Though Fletcher simply responded with a shrug. “The whole world has trust issues. But you know who wins in life? The ­people who get over it and trust anyway. The question is always—­do you want it bad enough?”

  And Jack confessed, “That is the question.”

  Jack found Fletcher more than a little intriguing, and easy to talk to—­and he considered saying more. But instead he turned to go. Because prolonging this conversation, he suspected, would only have him further examining things he was busy trying to avoid.

  Still, he looked back over his shoulder to say, “Mind if I ask you something? What’s a guy who can juggle fire on a tightrope doing in Coral Cove, Florida?”

  Fletcher laughed good-­naturedly. “It’s not the hot commodity you might think, my friend,” he said. “But the real answer is a long story. I live in a little blue cottage up the beach on Sea Shell Lane. If you’re ever up that way, drop by for a beer and I’ll tell you what’s keeping me here.”

  Jack walked away even more intrigued. Damn, this little town was full of interesting ­people.

  But he forgot all about Fletcher McCloud when he approached Christy’s table to find her smiling from ear to ear, holding up a twenty dollar bill of her own. “Look, Jack!” she said. “I sold a bracelet! I really did it! I made my first sale!”

  The joy in her hazel green eyes nearly undid him. And damn, he wanted to kiss her again—­but instead he just said, “I’m not surprised at all—­I knew you would.”

  Then she bit her lip, looking thoughtful, hopeful, sweet as hell. “Wouldn’t it be great if I could ever earn enough money at this to make a career of it? To support Grandpa Charlie and me both?”

  “That would be great, Alice,” he agreed softly.

  To which she replied by flashing a deprecating smile. “You don’t sound like you think that’s possible.” She still spoke just as sweetly, and didn’t seem hurt or angry—­maybe just . . . acceptant.

  And he hated like hell that she’d heard the reality in his voice. The last thing he wanted to be was discouraging. “Anything’s possible,” he told her.

  But it’s not likely, and it just reminds me that you need someone to take care of you.

  Jack had a lot of faith in a lot of things, but he wasn’t sure he believed in the impossible. And right now, it seemed pretty damn impossible to figure out a way to be close to Christy without risking everything.

  Alice rubbed her eyes, and looked again.

  She couldn’t make out what had happened at all.

  Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

  Chapter 11

  THE FOLLOWING morning, Christy bounded merrily into her grandfather’s room, unable to hide her joy. She found him chatting with Ron the Nurse, who looked up and said, “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?”

  “Of course she is,” Grandpa Charlie said. “My day’s better already just seeing that pretty smile. Now come give your old grandpa a hug.”

  Ron excused himself, warning them with a grin, “Now don’t you two be plotting any trouble while I’m gone.”

  And after Christy had given her grandpa a hug in his wheelchair, he said, “What has you looking so happy and glowy this morning, my grandgirl?”

  She tilted her head and offered a coy, playful grin. “Maybe it’s just seeing you.”

  He laughed and said, “Now, I know ya love me, but this ain’t that kinda glow.”

  And then Christy told him the news she’d been dying to share since last night. “I sold some jewelry at the sunset celebration, Grandpa! Five pieces before the night was through! It started out kind of slow, but then it was just one after another, and I ended up making over a hundred dollars!”

  Now Grandpa Charlie smiled, too, big and bold, as a happy laugh left him. “See there? I knew it. And it just goes to show ya—­you never know what you can do until ya try.”

  “That’s so true! Thank you for encouraging me. It really was hard to set up my stuff and sit there without knowing what would happen, and at first when ­people walked right on by, I felt like a big loser. But with a little patience, things got better.”

  “And ya know, the truth is,” he told her, “if you hadn’t sold a dang thing that woulda been hard on ya—­but you’d still be glad you tried. And you wouldn’t be a loser.”

  Christy thought that through and realized he was right. It would have been disillusioning and heartbreaking, but it would still be better than always wondering what would’ve happened. And now . . . “Everything feels . . . filled with possibility.” And it truly did. Ever since her second sale—­which had proved the first wasn’t a fluke—­she’d felt uplifted, as if she’d discovered the world was a different, better place than she’d come to
believe. Her problems seemed smaller. And a halo of hope hung over her every thought.

  Just then, Grandpa Charlie squinted, lowered his chin. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  And she rolled her eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “But you want him to be,” Grandpa Charlie said.

  Ugh. She let out a sigh. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Yes, indeedy, my grandgirl.” A warm expression shone from her grandpa’s eyes. “And he seems like a stand up fella, so I approve.”

  This time she held in the sigh, but a great well of emptiness opened inside her. She’d been so happy focusing on her jewelry sales—­but when it came to Jack, her emotions were at war. She flip flopped between just being glad to have him in her life and being painfully aware of wanting something more that she just couldn’t have. And right now, the suggestion of Jack being her boyfriend had her wanting. “Well, I’m glad you like him, but . . .” She stopped, finally letting out that sigh.

  “But what?” her grandpa asked. “What’s wrong with him that I didn’t see?”

  Christy tried to think how to explain. She couldn’t just blurt out that she was seeking a rich man in order for him to stay here at Sunnymeade, but . . . maybe he’d understand if she just kept the focus on Jack himself. “Well, Jack’s great,” she said, “but . . . he’s a handyman.”

  “Honest livin’ if you ask me,” Grandpa Charlie said without missing a beat.

  “Yes, and he’s wonderful at it!” she rushed to say. Since clearly she’d come at this the wrong way. “And if I were any other person in any other situation . . .”

  “What situation are you in, darlin’?”

  Crap. She’d blurted out that last part before thinking, and now she felt . . . shallow. Still, she tried to be honest, and more blunt this time. “I’m dirt poor, Grandpa.”

  “Well, you don’t need to be rich to be happy.”

  “Oh, I know,” she assured him. “And I’m not even sure I’d like being rich to tell you the truth.” In fact, eating at the Hungry Fisherman the last ­couple of days and staying at the Happy Crab the last ­couple of nights had truly shown Christy how much she enjoyed a down to earth lifestyle. And she was forced to realize how much more comfortable—­and downright happy—­she’d been in places like that with Jack than she’d been in fancy clubs and restaurants back home. “But . . . well . . .”