Читать книгу The Story of Us - Сьюзен Виггс, Susan Wiggs - Страница 7

I felt the rumble of the Harley’s engine deep in my gut, and with the sunlit dust rising in a cloud, the rider looked like something out of a dream. Down at the lakeshore, my girlfriends didn’t notice him the way I did. I think that might have been because at that point, their lives were set. RaeLynn was going to marry Dallas Sitwell, and Trudy was headed off for a summer of travel before law school. I was free, still searching for what my life was to become, and for that reason, I was open to anything.

Especially if it was a black-clad stranger on a Harley, driving straight toward me.

I had always been a rational, no-nonsense person. Raised the way I was, I learned early on to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground and my head out of the clouds. Still, at that moment, as the stranger crested the hill leading down to the lake, I felt a strange shifting inside me, a tightening in the pit of my stomach.

The girls were still oblivious, splashing water at each other and laughing. I walked toward the road, completely intrigued by the approaching rider. The dusty Harley shuddered like a live thing as he brought it to a stop a few yards away from me. Stirring up a swirl of caliche dust from the road, he planted his feet, in knee-high boots, on the ground. Despite the heat of the day, I felt a chill pass over me like a breeze.

Do men remember what they were wearing on certain occasions the way women do? I doubt it. Women always do, though. I can recall, with the clarity of a photograph, what I had on for any significant occasion of my life. I wish I could say I had on something like Lucky Santangelo might wear, a leopard print bikini and gold mules maybe. However, on this particular day, I was wearing faded cutoffs and a blue bikini top, flip-flops and a shiny coating of sunscreen. No makeup other than toenail polish, and my hair in a ponytail, which made me cringe. This was supposed to be an all-girl weekend and we had dressed accordingly.

The stranger, on the other hand, looked spectacular in black jeans and those tall boots. A shiny helmet and aviator shades gave him an air of mystery. I didn’t recognize the ganglike insignia and the logo “VAQ 465” on his black T-shirt, but the cryptic symbols only added to the enigma.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said, polite as you please.

I asked, “Are you lost?” A mundane question on the surface, but given everything that happened after, it was strangely prophetic.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a voice as smooth as melted butter, “I believe I just might be.”

Then he took off his helmet and shades, and I saw his face for the first time. A light-brown beard stubble beautifully accentuated the lines of his jaw, chin and cheekbones, and even though I couldn’t tell from a distance, I somehow knew his eyes would be blue. Just as I was getting nervous—what if he’s a gang member, an outlaw? What if my mother’s right after all?—a wonderful smile unfurled, a funny half grin that caught at my heart.

“Um, can I help you? Where are you headed?” I asked.

“I’m looking for someone…” he said with an unexpected awkwardness that was curiously endearing. “But I’ve forgotten who. My God, I can’t even think straight. You are just about the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.”

For a few seconds, it didn’t register that he was actually flirting with me. I actually whipped a glance behind to see if he was talking to someone else, but no, he was looking directly at me. Grace McAllen, Grace the invisible, Grace the overlooked. I never thought of myself as pretty, you see. Nice-looking, that was me. Nice-looking Grace, who had never done anything noteworthy in her entire life.

When I finally figured out that he was offering me a compliment, I blushed, of course. And I hate blushing. It makes some girls look becoming, but on me, it’s just a heated rush of color staining my face like a sunburn.

I couldn’t bring myself to thank him. “What can I do for you?”

What can I do for you? Lordy, Grace, I scolded myself, could you maybe be a little more obvious?

Yet somehow the stranger made it all right, letting that half smile stretch into a grin. With unhurried movements, he removed his leather gloves, took out a surprisingly white cloth handkerchief and slowly, deliberately, without taking his eyes off me, wiped his hands.

Then he stuck out one hand toward me. “My name’s Steve Bennett.”

Like Elizabeth Bennet in my favorite novel. It must be a sign, it had to be. I put aside my practical nature and suddenly believed everything was a sign—the way two herons rose from the water and arrowed toward the sun, the nodding branch of a redbud tree arching over the road, the backfire blast of a passing truck. It was like the universe was telling me to pay attention, this was an important moment.

Life does that, I’ve come to believe. Life hands us moments, brings us to turning points, and it’s up to us to make what we will of the situation. Right then and there, I could have turned away, murmured that I needed to get back to my friends. Or, I thought, I could stay right there and see where the moment took me.