Читать книгу At First Touch - Cindy Miles - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

THE PUNGENT AROMA of strong coffee brewing seeped into Reagan’s subconscious, and her eyes blinked open. Confusion webbed her mind at first—where was she? For a moment she stared hard, trying to clear the haze and blur of the room. She sat up, rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. Then the feeling of dread that visited her daily swamped her, and she froze. She wasn’t just blind. She was blind...and home.

Back on Cassabaw. Had been, for nearly a week.

Coming home was...a shock. The last time she’d been on the island was the day of their parents’ funeral. They’d pulled away from the cemetery, a U-Haul carrying their belongings, and she’d never been back. She didn’t remember as much as Emily did, but flashes now crossed her mind, and they were like a thick cloud of recollections in front of her face. Ones she could almost see, but not quite. Faded pictures that were memories of her parents, laid out in an album; of playing on the dock with her sister; of easing through the creek in their father’s aluminum boat and letting her fingers brush the marsh grass as they passed. Sometimes she wondered if she actually remembered the memory or just the photograph.

She’d lost her sight. Her parents. Her childhood. She’d lost...all of that. What she had in her brain was now the only photo album she had.

Reagan let her body fall back against the pillows and she lay there, arm draped over those cursed eyes, and she squeezed them tightly shut and just...breathed. Tears pooled and spilled over her closed lids, dampening her pillow.

Moments later, a knock sounded at her bedroom door, and before she could respond, the creaking of a rusty hinge alerted her that it was being cracked open.

“Rea?”

Reagan swiped at her eyes and sat up. “Hey,” she answered hastily, not wanting her sister to catch her in a moment of weakness.

Emily’s soft footfalls crossed the room, and the bed sank a little when she sat on it. “I made coffee,” her sister said.

“Yeah, I uh...” Reagan replied. “I can smell it.” She smiled, but turned her face toward the light streaming in through the window.

“You okay, sis?” Emily asked, and she draped her arm over Reagan’s shoulders. Then she lifted the ponytail Reagan had pulled her shoulder-length hair into the night before. “Want me to brush it? It’s grown out since you cut it short.” Emily tugged at her ponytail. “I can braid it if you like—”

“No, Em.” Reagan rose from the bed and slowly moved toward the blurred image of the window. With her hands outstretched, she grasped the sill and stood, allowing the sunlight to bathe her face. Outside the windows, crickets chirped. “I’m not helpless. I can get myself in and out of bed, dressed and...even braid my own hair. I’m not an invalid.”

Emily’s sigh reached her ears. “I know—I didn’t mean anything, Rea. Honest. Hey,” she said brightly, changing gears. “Let’s have breakfast on the dock. Like we did when we were kids. Do you remember?” Her footsteps grew closer. Hesitant. “It’s a sincerely magical morning. Perhaps a mermaid will join us.”

Reagan closed her eyes briefly, and a slight smile touched her lips. Emily had a way with words, and she’d always made up the best stories when they were kids. “Sure.” She turned toward her sister. “Sounds good.”

“Swell! I’ll throw everything together! You like bananas, right? Fruit? Greek yogurt?” Emily said, and Reagan nodded. “Great!” Em’s voice grew faint as she hurried from the room. “It’ll only take me a sec!” A crash to the floor followed by a muttered shiitake mushrooms! reached Reagan’s ears, and she again felt her mouth pull into a slight smile. Emily Quinn—soon to be Malone—hadn’t changed a bit. She’d never been one for swearing. Instead, she’d made up her own forms of verbal release. Shiitake mushrooms being one of them.

The sounds of Emily bustling around in the kitchen washed over Reagan for a moment more; they—the noises—seemed familiar, too. Of a time long, long ago, when their mother used to make ham sandwiches and dill pickles to eat on the dock. Or toast waffles—toast with butter and syrup—and bacon on Saturday mornings. Sounds she’d taken for granted as a kid were the only link to the past she had now. The clink of silverware. The creak of the pantry door. Reagan breathed, scanned the room with her useless eyes, then eased across the wood-planked floor, arm outstretched, and made her way slowly across the hall to the bathroom. The thing about the Quinns’ river house was that it had a lot of windows, allowing the sun to pour in from all directions. It gave her some semblance of direction. A small help, she guessed.

In the bathroom, Reagan quietly closed the door behind her, washed her face and brushed her teeth with the toiletries she’d carefully laid out on the shelf after she’d first arrived. After running a brush through her hair, she pulled it back into a ponytail again and then stared hard at the blurred image before her. Tentatively, she lifted her fingertips to her eyes. Brushed the tender skin beneath them. The corners. Then the lids.

Useless. Blank stares. That’s all she had to offer now.

Pushing angrily away from the sink, she made her way back to her room, bumped into the door frame and swore, then once inside pulled open the first drawer of her meticulously packed dresser. Emily had helped her arrange the clothes in her dresser so all Reagan would have to do was feel around for them. With her fingertips she felt in the first drawer for a bra. Easy enough. In the next drawer, a pair of cutoff faded jeans that she knew reached midthigh and had a hole near the pocket. Then a tank top. Plain. Easy. No color coordination required. The only thing she’d ever have to worry about would be that her shirt was inside out, and she absently lifted her hand and brushed the back of her tank. Small, silky tag intact and inside shirt. With a shake of her head, she sat on the floor and pulled on her well-worn Converses, then slipped on her shades, grabbed her walking stick and headed for the kitchen.

Shadows and light collided as the sun poured in through the multitude of windows, from every angle, and for a moment Reagan stopped in her tracks to get her bearings. Living room. Kitchen to the left. She continued on, tapping her stick side to side as she went along. She knocked against something hard—an end table, probably—then something soft. Sofa. She felt like a fool, swiping the long stick with the telltale sign that a blind person was on the move: white stick, red tip. Swipe swipe swipe.

“Just let me grab one more thing and we’re all set,” Emily said, and her figure shot about the kitchen in a hurry, then came to stand before Reagan. “Okay, ready?”

“I can help carry something,” Reagan said.

“Nope, it’s okay. I’ve—”

“Em,” she warned with impatience. “Seriously.”

“Fine,” Emily agreed with a sigh, then draped a strap over Reagan’s shoulder. “You carry the lunch box. I’ve got the thermos and cups.”

Reagan nodded and adjusted the bag. “Right behind you.”

The screen door creaked open and Reagan caught it with her palm as she and her sister stepped onto the porch. Humidity clung to the air around her, and she inhaled the ever-present brine that always heightened at low tide. She followed her sister’s lead, walking the trail she remembered from years ago, until they left the shade of the magnolias and live oaks and hit full sun on the dock. The wood creaked as they started across, and Reagan picked her footing carefully.

“You should’ve seen this when I first returned,” Emily said. “Every other wood plank was sketchy, then there was the big gap.” She giggled. “I’d hired Matt to repair it, and Lord have mercy above, you should’ve seen him out here.” She sighed, and the sound floated back to Reagan on the breeze. “All cutoff shorts and bare chest with all those muscles glistening from the water.”

Reagan’s mouth tugged up in the corners. “Sounds like you were perving on him, sis.”

“I totally was,” Emily confessed. “Are you okay back there?”

Reagan swept her stick side to side, and the dock was just enough of a shadow in the bright sunlight to make out. “Yep, I’m good.”

“You amaze me, you know?” Emily continued. “I mean, look at you. Taking the dock like you own it. Which you do.” She giggled. “On a good day I pick my way carefully down, even though it’s in good shape now.” Another sigh. “Guess I’m a scaredy-cat.”

Yeah, right. You’ve never been a scaredy-cat, Reagan thought, but said nothing. She just continued her path to the end, then eased down the aluminum plank to the floating dock. It rocked back and forth with the lapping water. Another door creaked, and Emily’s figure bustled about in the little dock house, then finally returned.

“Let me throw down this quilt,” she said. “So our backsides don’t fry.”

Reagan stood, letting the salty breeze brush her face and toss her ponytail as she waited.

“Okay, it’s all ready. Move one step over and have a seat. You’re close to the edge, so we can hang our feet in the water.”

Reagan slowly lowered, felt the cool material of the quilt beneath her palms, and eased onto it. Slipping off her sneakers, she felt for the edge, found it with her fingertips and lowered her feet into the tepid water. A shadow moved, then a splash beside her as Emily found her place.

“Okay. Yogurt,” her sister said, handing her the cool plastic container. “Spoon is right beside you.”

Reagan sighed, hating that she had to be told where items were, felt the lid with her fingertips and pulled the thin foil top off. Found the spoon next to her on the quilt and picked it up. “Thanks, Em.”

“No problemo,” she returned. “You know, we could—”

The sound of Emily’s phone ringing cut off her words. “It’s the café. I’d better answer,” she said. “Emily Quinn, esquire and entrepreneur, here. Oh, hey, Toby, what’s up?” Silence, then, “Oh, shoot. Okay, give me a few and I’ll be right in.” Emily sighed. “Fudgsicle,” she huffed. “I’m sorry, sis. I have to go in. Ginger had to leave sick.”

Reagan nodded, the wind pushing at her hair. “It’s okay, Em. I’ll be fine.”

“Two hot Quinn chicks,” a voice interrupted, and grew closer. “Could a guy get any luckier?”

Emily laughed. “Ha! It just got worse. I have to leave. Hey,” she said with a touch of glee in her voice. “Why don’t you take my place?”

“No, he doesn’t have to,” Reagan interjected. “I’m perfectly fine—”

The floating dock rocked as Eric Malone jumped from the ramp and landed with a heavy thud. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said cheerfully. “It’s your lucky day, Reagan Rose. I have the entire day off.”

“Umm,” she replied, pushing a spoon of yogurt into her mouth. “Lucky me.”

Emily laughed. “Rea, are you sure you don’t want to come with me? You could sit on the pier, or on the covered deck at the café? Or inside with me—”

“Sure, maybe with a cup beside me, for people to throw change into. No, thanks, I’m good,” Reagan replied. “You go.”

Eric’s laughter broke out over the river. “She and all of her grumpiness are in good hands, Em,” Eric said with confidence. As if he wasn’t irritating the hell out of her with his cocky buoyancy. “Thanks for the breakfast, sis.”

“I don’t need to be in anyone’s hands,” Reagan insisted. “And I’m not grumpy.”

She was promptly ignored.

Footfalls sounded as Emily jogged up the metal ramp and headed back across the marsh. “See you guys later! Call me if you need anything!”

The docked swayed as Eric plunked himself down beside Reagan, and the sound of water rippling and lapping against the edges alerted her that he had dropped his feet in, too. “So,” he said. Chipper. Jubilant. Annoyingly so. “This is what you call breakfast, huh?”

Reagan shrugged. “You don’t have to eat it. And you don’t have to babysit me, either.”

“Wow. You must be exhausted,” he said.

Reagan swiped her spoon around the inside of the yogurt container, finding it empty. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Looks like that chip on your shoulder is pretty heavy.”

“There’s no chip,” she said, frustrated. “I just don’t like being treated like a baby.” She gave a short laugh. “No one seems to get that.”

“Coffee?” he asked.

Reagan sighed. “Yes, please.”

Eric chuckled, then she heard the sound of liquid pouring into a cup before he pushed it into her hand. Warmth soaked through to her palm. “Thanks,” she muttered quietly, and sipped the hot drink that her sister had made just perfect. Lots of sugar, lots of cream.

“So, what do you want to do today?” Eric asked cheerfully. “Hey, are you gonna eat your banana?” The sound of him rummaging around in the bag met her ears.

“Yes, I’m going to eat it. And we aren’t doing anything today,” Reagan replied.

“Why not?”

Reagan stared through the shade of her sunglasses, out across the water where only the vague, dark outline of the little island they all used to play on lay in the distance. “Because,” she said, “I don’t need a babysitter.” She turned her gaze in his direction, but saw only a silhouette. “Don’t you have anything to do?”

“And pass up the chance to hang out with the hot neighbor? Nah,” he said, his voice buoyant again. He leaned closer. “Not in a million. So, you can either tell me what you want to do, or I’ll just have to surprise you, Reagan Rose.” He chuckled. “Either way, babe, I’m just not taking no for an answer.”