Summer Light: A Novel by Luanne Rice Page A

seemed momentarily unsure of how his body worked, and as he reached for her, he fumbled his baseball cap and dropped it onto the ground.
    The kiss took May’s breath away. Martin held her tight, and she held him back. The day was balmy, on its way to being hot, and they were surrounded by the powerful scents of tall grass and white roses. May would never again smell spring without thinking of Martin.
    “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” May said.
    “Honestly?” he asked.
    “I didn’t know.” She shrugged, standing back.
    “I lost,” he told her.
    “That didn’t matter to me.”
    “I screwed up. I—”
    “You were wonderful,” she said. “Like a tiger out there. I never knew a person could skate so fast, then go straight for the jugular…” May didn’t know what she was saying, how to describe her impressions of his game, but as she talked, she felt some of the tightness leave his body. He didn’t say anything, but as she looked into his eyes, she felt him listening.
    “I saw your face,” she said. “The camera showed you up close. I felt as if I was right there.”
    “I’m glad you weren’t—to see me lose.”
    “But you nearly won.”
    He pulled back slightly. The bruises were purple and yellow, the stitches an angry black line.
    “Nearly doesn’t count in hockey.”
    May didn’t know what to say to that.
    “I choked. I had a clean shot, and I gave it away. Passed to Ray—Ray Gardner. My mind was racing. It was the Stanley Cup, maybe my last chance. I thought of my father. He’s—” Martin’s face twisted as he thought about it.
    “You didn’t want to let him down?” May asked, guessing. She had read the papers. She knew his father was in jail.
    Martin snorted. “I just didn’t want him to see me lose. Letting him down was beside the point.”
    May frowned, listening.
    “He’s old,” Martin went on. “He’s…I told you. We’re estranged. We haven’t seen each other in years.”
    “He’s still your father.”
    “I’m different from you,” Martin said. “There’s nothing sentimental or nice about me and my father.” His accent was thicker than usual. He seemed very uncomfortable, talking about his father, about losing the game. May remembered the last four days, wondering where he had been, and she couldn’t manage to smile.
    “I didn’t come to talk to you about my father,” Martin said, holding her hand.
    “No?” May asked.
    “Our first fight.” Martin grinned, and he looked so disarming, May started to smile. “Forgive me?”
    She nodded, laughing.
    “I had the rose petals in my pocket,” Martin said. “I kept hearing you say: ‘How you play the game…’ ”
    “You thought of that while you played?” May asked, laughing again at the idea.
    “I did.” Martin laughed. “It didn’t help.”
    “Rose petals aren’t magic.”
    “They were for a while.” He stroked her hand. “They really were.”
    May looked down at their hands. She couldn’t tell him that many brides accepted her rose petals expecting their marriages to be blessed, to be in love forever, never to fight or drift apart. She didn’t want to tell him that some of those brides were now divorced, hated the men they had once loved more than the moon and stars, were now married to other people.
    Instead, she told him, “Kylie will be glad you came back.”
    “She will?”
    “Yes,” May said. “She had a lemonade stand yesterday, right over there by the fence. She hit up every bride who drove in, but I know she was hoping for you. She missed you.” She didn’t tell him about Kylie’s bad dreams returning, about Kylie screaming in her bed last night about the angel on the plane trying to tell her something.
    “What about her mother?” Martin asked, stepping closer.
    “I missed you, too.”
    “I want to marry you.”
    “Martin,” May whispered, her face turning red.
    “May,” he said softly.
    “We just met a few weeks ago.”
    “I told you. It’s meant to