There was nothing he yearned to do more, but he reeked of smoke, his face was coated with oily soot, and his hands were filthy.
Just do it.
And so he did. He tunneled his dirty hands through her hair and kissed her breathless. Her neck, her eyes, the corners of her mouth. He kissed her lips as if his life depended on it. Kissed their future into her. All they could have and all they could be. The soft sounds they made together became a poem to his ears.
Her hands clasped his shoulders, not pushing him away, drawing him closer. He lost himself in her. Found himself.
When their kiss finally ended, he kept his grubby hands cupped around her now equally grubby cheeks. Soot smudged the tip of her nose. Her lips were swollen from their kiss. Her eyes shimmered.
“Free secret,” she whispered.
His stomach twisted into its tightest knot. Slowly he released his breath. “Make it good.”
She pressed her lips to his ears and whispered her secret.
It was good. Really good. In fact, it couldn’t have been better.
Epilogue
THE SUMMER SUN SKIPPED OVER the crests of the waves and bounced off the masts of a pair of sailboats tacking into the wind. Cobalt blue Adirondack chairs sat on the garden patio, which had been positioned well in front of the old farmhouse to afford the best view of the distant ocean. Roses, delphinium, sweet peas, and nasturtium bloomed in the garden nearby, and a curving path led from the stone patio back across the meadow to the farmhouse, which was twice as big as it had once been. A grove of trees sheltered a small guesthouse off to the left where an ugly mermaid chair rested on the postage stamp porch.
On the garden patio, a market umbrella, folded against the early-afternoon breeze, rose from the center of a long wooden table large enough to accommodate a big family. An old stone gargoyle with a Knicks cap perched crookedly on its head had once guarded a house at the other end of the island. Now it crouched protectively near a clay pot overflowing with geraniums. The detritus of a Maine summer lay all around: a soccer ball, a pink riding toy, abandoned swim goggles, bubble wands, and waterlogged sidewalk chalk.
A boy with straight dark hair and a scowl sat cross-legged between two of the Adirondack chairs talking to Scamp, who was peering at him over the arm of one chair. “And . . .” the boy said, “. . . that’s why I stomped my feet. Because he made me very, very mad.”
The puppet shook her yarn curls. “Horrors! Tell me exactly what he did again.”
The boy—whose name was Charlie Harp—impatiently shoved his dark hair off his forehead and puffed up his cheeks in outrage. “He won’t let me drive the truck!”
Scamp pressed her cloth hand to her forehead. “That blackguard!”
A long-suffering sigh came from the next chair. Scamp and Charlie ignored it.
“Then . . .” Charlie added. “He got mad at me just because I took my turbo car away from my sister. It was mine.”
“Insane!” Scamp made a dismissive gesture toward the curly-haired toddler napping on an old quilt in the grass. “Just because you haven’t played with that car for years is absolutely no reason for her to have it. Your sister is nothing but a bother. She doesn’t even like you.”
“Well . . .” Charlie frowned. “She kind of likes me.”
“Does not.”
“She does! She laughs when I make funny faces and when I play with her and make noises, she goes crazy.”
“Très intéressant,” said Scamp, who still had a thing for languages.
“Sometimes she throws her food on the floor, and that’s pretty funny.”
“Hmmm . . . Perhaps . . .” Scamp tapped her cheek. “No, forget I said anything.”
“Tell me.”
“Well . . .” The puppet tapped her other cheek. “I, Scamp, am thinking that your turbo car is really a baby toy, and if anybody saw you playing with it, they might think you yourself are a—”
“They won’t think nothing because I’m giving that baby toy to her!”
Scamp regarded him with openmouthed astonishment. “I should have thought of that. Now, I believe I shall compose a song to—”
“No song!”
“Very well.” Scamp sniffed, deeply offended. “If you’re going to be like that I’m going to tell you what Dilly said. She said you can’t be a real superhero until you learn how to be nice to little kids. That is what she said.”
Charlie didn’t have a good counterargument, so he picked at the bandage on his big toe and returned to his prime grievance. “I’m an island kid.”
“Tragically, only in the summer,” Scamp said. “The rest of the time you’re a New York City kid.”
“Summer counts! It still makes me an island kid, and island kids get to drive.”
“When they’re ten.” This voice, deep and assertive, came from Leo, who was Charlie’s second favorite of the puppets—a lot more interesting than boring old Peter; or stupid, silly Crumpet; or Dilly—who was always reminding him to brush his teeth and stuff.
Leo peered at Charlie over the arm of the next chair. “Island kids have to be at least ten to drive. You, compadre, are six.”
“I’ll be ten soon.”
“Not that soon, thank G—goodness.”
Charlie glared at the puppet. “I’m really mad.”
“Sure you are. Super mad.” Leo circled his head one way and then the other. “I’ve got an idea.”
“What?”
“Tell him how mad you are. Then look really pitiful and ask him to take you Boogie-boarding. If you look pitiful enough, I bet he’ll feel so bad that he’ll take you.”
Charlie wasn’t born yesterday. He looked past Leo to the man holding him. “Really! Can we go right now?”
His father set Leo aside and shrugged. “The waves look good. Why not? Get your stuff.”
Charlie jumped up, and raced toward the house, his legs pumping. But just as he got to the front step, he stopped and whipped around. “I get to drive!”
“No you don’t!” his mother countered, slipping Scamp from her arm.
Charlie stomped inside, and his father laughed. “I love that kid.”
“Now, there’s a surprise.” Charlie’s mother gazed at the sleeping baby. The toddler’s wild honey-blond curls couldn’t be more different from her brother’s stick-straight dark hair, but the children shared their father’s blue eyes. They also had their mother’s irreverent personality.
Annie leaned back in the chaise. Theo never got tired of looking at his wife’s quirky face. He reached over and took her hand, running his fingers over the diamond-encrusted wedding band she’d declared too lavish but loved all the same. “What time do we get rid of them?”
“We’re dropping them off at Barbara’s at four. She’s giving them dinner.”
“Leaving us the whole evening for drunken debauchery.”
“I don’t know about the drunken part, but there will definitely be debauchery.”
“There’d better be. I love those little demons with all my heart, but they sure do play havoc with our sex life.”
Annie curled her fingers around his thigh. “Not tonight, they won’t.”
He groaned. “You’re killing me.”
“I haven’t even started.”
He reached out for her.
As Annie felt his hand in her hair, she wondered if it was wrong of her to love playing the femme fatale so much. To love the power she had over him—a power she used only to keep the shadows away. He was a different man from the one she’d seen seven years ago standing on the staircase holding a dueling pistol. They were both different. This island she’d once hated had become her favorite spot on earth, a refuge from the busyness of her normal life.
In addition to working privately with troubled children, she conducted puppet-training seminars for doctors, nurses, teachers, and social workers. She’d never imagined loving her work so much. Her main challenge was balancing it all with the family that meant everything to her and the friends she cherished. Here on the
island, she had time to do the things that sometimes slipped past her the rest of the year, like the tenth birthday party she’d thrown for Livia last week when Jaycie and her new family had visited from the mainland.
She turned her face into the sunlight. “It’s so nice just sitting here.”
“You work too hard,” he said, not for the first time.
“I’m not the only one.” It wasn’t entirely surprising that the Diggity Swift books had become so successful. Diggity’s adventures took his young teen readers to the edge of horror without pushing them into the pit. Annie loved that her goofy drawings inspired her husband and pleased his readers.
Charlie came barreling out of the house. Theo rose reluctantly, kissed Annie, grabbed one of the cranberry nut cookies from the container he’d found on the farmhouse doorstep that morning, gazed down at his sleeping daughter, then headed for the beach with his son. Annie drew her heels up onto the chair seat and hugged her knees.
In her old gothic paperbacks, the reader never got to see what happened to the hero and heroine when real life set in and they had to deal with all its messiness: household chores, children squabbling, head colds, and the challenges of dealing with extended family—his, not hers. Elliott had mellowed with age, but Cynthia was as pretentious as ever, and she drove Theo crazy. Annie was more tolerant because Cynthia was an astonishingly good grandmother—much better with children than with adults—and the kids loved her.
As for Annie’s family . . . Niven Garr’s widowed sister Sylvia, along with Niven’s longtime partner Benedict—or Grampa Bendy—as Charlie called him, would be arriving soon for their annual summer visit. At first, Sylvia and Benedict had been suspicious of Annie, but after a DNA test and some awkward early visits, they had become as close as if they’d always been part of each other’s lives.
Tonight, though, it would just be Theo and herself. Tomorrow they’d pack up the kids and drive to the other end of the island. She imagined them waving at the family from Providence who’d rented the schoolhouse cottage for the season, then heading up the badly rutted drive to the top of the cliff and the island’s best view.
The outbuildings of Harp House had been demolished long ago, the swimming pool filled in for safety. Only the vine-covered turret remained of what once had been. She and Theo would lie on a blanket sampling a good bottle of wine while Charlie ran free as only an island kid could. Eventually Theo would pick up their daughter, kiss the top of her head, and carry her to an old spruce stump. He’d crouch down, gather up the beach glass that was still scattered there, and whisper in her ear.
“Let’s build a fairy house.”
About the Author
Susan Elizabeth Phillips soared onto the New York Times best sellers list with Dream a Little Dream and has stayed there ever since. Her books have been published in over thirty languages, making her a favorite of readers all over the world as well as an international best seller. A resident of the Chicago suburbs, she’s also a hiker, gardener, reader, wife, mother of two grown sons, and someone who believes that life is too short to read depressing books.
Visit Susan at www.susanelizabethphillips.com and also on Facebook and Twitter.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
ALSO BY SUSAN ELIZABETH PHILLIPS
The Great Escape
Call Me Irresistible
What I Did for Love
Glitter Baby
Natural Born Charmer
Match Me If You Can
Ain’t She Sweet
Breathing Room
This Heart of Mine
Just Imagine
First Lady
Lady Be Good
Dream a Little Dream
Nobody’s Baby but Mine
Kiss an Angel
Heaven, Texas
It Had to Be You
Credits
Cover design by Amanda Kain
Cover photograph © by 2/Dougal Waters/Ocean/Corbis
Author photograph by Peter Irman
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
HEROES ARE MY WEAKNESS. Copyright © 2014 by Susan Elizabeth Phillips. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Phillips, Susan Elizabeth.
Heroes are my weakness / Susan Elizabeth Phillips.—First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-06-210607-0 (hardback)
ISBN 978-0-06-210619-3 (paperback) 1. Authors—Fiction.
2. Actresses—Fiction. 3. Maine—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction.
I. Title.
PS3566.H522H47 2014
813'.54—dc23
2014007547
EPUB Edition August 2014 ISBN 9780062106117
14 15 16 17 18 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Heroes Are My Weakness
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