Share the Moon. Sharon Struth
her chest.
Tears gathered along her lower lashes. She pushed a strand of unruly long hair from her face. Footsteps crunched on the ice pellets and headed her way.
“Matthew Shaw…” Fury pooled in her jaw as she resisted the urge to yell at her son. “You’d better have a good excuse for taking so long.”
A man with cinnamon hair, short on the sides with gentle waves on top, knelt at her side. She studied the strong outline of his cheeks and the slight bump on the bridge of his angular nose that gave him a rugged touch, but he wasn’t familiar.
“Are you okay?” He searched her face.
The stranger hovered above. Tall treetops, clinging to the last of their earth-toned foliage, served as a backdrop to her view. A vertical crease separated his sandy brows. She couldn’t pry herself from his vivid blue eyes, in part stunned from the fall, but also by her first responder.
For several long seconds she stared, and then mumbled, “I think so. Just a little shocked.”
A whiff of his musk cologne revived her with the subtle charm of a southern preacher casting his congregation under his spell.
He frowned. “Does it hurt to move anything?”
“Sometimes it did before I fell.”
The stranger’s face softened and his lips curved upward. “A sense of humor, huh? That’s a good sign.”
“I suppose.” His deep voice relaxed her like a cup of chamomile tea, the balanced and certain tone of his words easing her wounded spirit. Maybe this guy was a sign her rotten luck might change. “So, where’s your white horse?”
“In the stable. Today I came in the white Camry.” He motioned with a wave of his hand to a corner of the parking lot.
She pushed up on her elbow to look and a sharp pain jabbed her neck. “Ow!”
“Careful.” His smile disappeared. “I was on my way over to help when you fell. You hit pretty hard.”
The heat of embarrassment skittered up her cheeks. Not only had he witnessed her spastic aerobics, but she never played the distressed-damsel-on-the-dirty-ground card. A woman proficient at fly-fishing, who learned how to drive in a pickup truck and who, in her job as a journalist, had uncovered a corrupt politician, should be up and running by now.
“Go slow.” His request suggested doling out orders came easy. “May I help?”
She nodded. He slipped a gentle hand into hers. The chill coating her skin melted against his warm touch. His well-groomed nails and thick fingers suggested he didn’t work outdoors, rather the clean hands of a man who spent his days in an office. No wedding band either. He helped her sit and studied her as if a question perched on the edge of his thoughts.
“Can I call someone?” He blinked. “Your husband?”
“Oh, I’m not married.” She caught the slight twitch of his mouth. “My son’s supposed to be on his way to restack the boats.”
Since her divorce from Mike, she’d concluded the available men in Northbridge were as predictable as the assortment at the dollar rental video store, filled with decade-old hits she’d seen so many times they held little interest. This man was a refreshing change.
“Ready to try to stand?” He took her by the elbow and she nodded.
Once on her feet, their hands remained together.
He glanced at them and let his drop. “You’ll probably think this is crazy but—”
“Sophie?” The owner of Griswold’s Café stood across the street and wiped his hands on a stained white apron. He’d placed the call to her father to alert them about the vandalism at Dad’s boat shed. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” She waved. “Thanks.”
She returned to the newcomer’s gaze, as blue as the deep Caribbean Sea and as shiny as a starburst.
He raised his dirt-stained hands. “You might want to check yours.”
Sure enough, her palms carried the same smudges from the impact of her fall. “Hold on. I have something to clean us off.”
She trotted to her car, hoping the backside of her blazer covered any mess on the back of her pants.
After finding a package of wipes in the center console, she cleaned herself spotless and peeked in the rearview mirror. Her dark chocolate curls scattered with the freewill of a reckless perm. She neatened them with her fingertips then grabbed her cell and tried to call Matt but landed in his voice mail. The second she hung up, the phone rang. Bernadette’s name showed on the display.
“Hey.”
“Is your speech ready for tonight? You’re our star speaker.”
Bernadette always latched onto a crusade. The first was in third grade, a petition over the slaughter of baby seals for their skins. For tonight’s public hearing, Bernadette had promised everyone the fight of her life. Her special interest group’s concern about the large-scale development on Blue Moon Lake proposed by Resort Group International was a sore topic for many local residents, especially Sophie.
“Better find a new star speaker. There’s a change of plans.” Sophie readied herself for a negative reaction. “I’m covering the story for the paper now.”
“You? Has Cliff lost his mind?”
“No. The other reporter can’t do the assignment. Her father had a stroke earlier today. Cliff wanted to take the story himself, but I insisted he stick to his job as editor and let me do mine. I even made a five dollar bet I’d get a headline-worthy, bias-free quote from the company president.”
“Do you think you can? I mean, RGI stole that land right out from under your nose. What was it…three days before signing the contract?”
Those were almost Cliff’s exact words, along with some mumbling about how the paper’s cheap new owner had cut his staff and he saw no other choice. “Two days.”
“Honey, why would you want this story?”
“I have my reasons. This won’t be the first time one of us needed to report on something close to us.”
“Yeah, but wouldn’t some public chastising against the corporate giant be good for your soul?”
“In a way.” Sophie hesitated then decided to tell her best friend the truth. “Look, this is a chance to redeem myself. Prove to Cliff I really can stick to my journalist’s creed after…well, you know, what happened with Ryan Malarkey.”
“Mmm, forgot about him. He makes all us lawyers look bad.” A long pause filled the air. “Guess that’s a valid reason.”
Sophie still harbored guilt from the last time a story got personal and she’d been fooled into violating her hallowed reporter vows. “Hey, on a lighter note, it’s raining men over here at the lake.”
Bernadette laughed. “What?”
“Some kids vandalized Dad’s kayak shed. He asked for my help and this handsome guy appeared out of nowhere to help me. Fill you in later. He’s waiting.”
On her way back to the stranger, she studied his profile. Men this desirable didn’t drop out of the sky around here. Why was he in town? Visitors to Northbridge weren’t unusual in the summer, but not late fall. He faced the water, looking in the direction of the rolling hillside of Tate Farm, the property under discussion at tonight’s controversial public hearing.
She neared the visitor and he turned around.
“Are you the owner of this place?” He pointed to the wood-sided shed with a sign reading “Bullhead Boat Rentals.”
“No. My father runs it with my brother. Dad’s too old to be walking around in this icy mess and my brother