Sweetgrass by Monroe Mary Alice

Author:Monroe, Mary Alice [Monroe, Mary Alice]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin Enterprises
Published: 2012-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

Mary June rode her bicycle through the steadily falling rain. It was stinging cold and woke her to the reality of what she was doing. She was being headstrong, foolish with her fury, and it felt great. Her heart pounded hard as she pedaled through thick mud and gravel, trying to follow the winding dirt road. The night was dark with low-lying clouds, and the road was bordered by high spindly pines and cragged oaks dripping moss like ghostly lace. She felt as if she was paddling again through the creek at low tide. All she could see was a wall of gray, with only a narrow muddy path to follow.

A path that led to Tripp.

Forward, forward, she told herself. She didn’t think about the strange animal noises and rattles she heard in the shadows. She focused on the house that she knew sat at the end of the road, facing the sea. She pedaled toward an answer that she just had to have, that night, right away.

When she thought her lungs would burst from exertion, the road opened up to a clearing. Ahead lay the shadowy, wide vista of wetland and creek and ocean beyond. As she entered, the scent of salt and pungent pluff mud assailed her. She slowed her pedaling, and through the mist of rain Bluff House took shape. She rode directly to the porch, braking just as her tire bumped against the first step.

All was dark except for the faint flickering of yellow light from the upstairs bedroom. He was home and awake, probably reading by the light of a camp lamp. Feeling faint of heart for the first time since she’d started this mad escapade, she leaned her bike against the porch and scurried through the rain up the stairs to the front door just as lightning scarred the sky.

She felt breathless from the ride and from nervousness. Taking a calming breath, she knocked three times on the door. Thunder rumbled over the marsh, low and deafening. The storm was not yet over. Suddenly she didn’t want to be standing out in the rain any longer. Making a fist, she pounded the door, her desperation and fear sounding loudly against the wood.

Thoughts of all the words he’d said to her in the past three weeks, all the emotions that they’d shared, all the kisses in clandestine places—his car, the boat, the beach, the moldy divan in the house—assailed her. All the scents as they’d clung together—mildew and salt, perfume and aftershave—engulfed her. Memories of trembling hands groping and fevered endearments whispered in the dark swirled in her mind as she kept knocking, unaware that she was crying.

The door swung open. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw his silhouette in the narrow slant of light from the flashlight in his hand. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts, his hair was disheveled and his face unshaven. He looked at her silently, his face creased with sleep and surprise.

Her hand, frozen mid-knock, moved to slick back the dripping hair from her brow.

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