She smiled. “I want to know your nickname.”
He laughed then, and she could sense the tension wash away from him. “You’re crazy, you know that?” He shook his head, and she saw that he was less tense. He turned to her. “You and Billy Hobart would have had a lot in common. He was just like you. Stubborn, persistent, too damn smart for his... or your own good.”
“I’m waiting.”
He looked away, then rubbed his chin for a second and mumbled something just as a wave crashed on the shoreline.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Hardhead.”
She looked at him for a second. “Hardhead Hank?”
“Yeah. Hardhead Hank Wyatt.”
She burst out laughing.
It was almost dawn when they slipped back inside the hut. There was no light except for a pinkish glimmer of sunrise in the eastern sky. They checked each child—all sound asleep, as was Muddy, his bottle lying on a mat next to him.
Margaret nudged Hank and pointed. Muddy was wearing his shoes.
They moved back into the darkness of the hut, and his arms slid around her. He kissed her with quiet passion and held her face in his rough hands as if it were made of china. She slid her arms around him and just let him hold her until their kiss was done, and they stood there, not wanting to leave the other but knowing they had to.
She didn’t know how long they stood there. Being in his arms was everything safe and warm and loving. She had the fleeting thought that perhaps she didn’t want to let go because she was afraid if she did, then she’d realize it was all a dream, that none of those beautiful things had happened.
Finally he whispered they needed a little sleep. And she nodded but didn’t let go. He swung her up into his arms and carried her to the hammock, laying her inside. She wondered if he knew that her heart beat a little faster whenever he swung her into his arms like that.
He stood over her for a moment, looking at her as if he expected her to disappear and he needed to look at her to keep her there.
She wondered if their thoughts were that close. Did a man feel what a woman did? Did he have those same doubts, those same thrills?
He brushed her cheek with his hand, then turned and walked across the hut. And she watched his broad back until he was only a shadow moving in a dim corner. She heard the rope on his hammock creak. Then there was nothing but the distant sounds of the shore.
They both lay in their hammocks, eyes closed, neither asleep, because in truth they were too aware of the other, the scent, touch, and taste still lingering. The memory of the fire in his eyes. The misty look of passion in hers.
On this Christmas night, when across the world so many celebrated with gifts and love, Hank Wyatt and Margaret Smith each received a gift, something to cherish. In each other they found more than love and more than passion. They found a lost part of themselves. And they found it in the oddest place, a place that until a few weeks before they would have never thought to look.
* * *
It wasthe perfect dayfor a baseball game. The sky was clear. The breeze was light. And the men were playing against the women.
Ah, life couldn’t get much better.
Hank gave Annabelle a pat on the head. He’d made a makeshift crib with trunks and she was happily playing in the sand with her new toys. He walked back to the mound and looked at Smitty and grinned. She was bent down so she could talk to Lydia. The sun was behind them, and Smitty’s dress was that thin cotton thing that he could see through when the light was right. And the light was just right.
She moved behind Lydia and blocked his view. He tossed the ball in one hand. “All right now! Enough gabbing! Batter up!”
Hank looked at Theodore. The kid was doing just as he’d taught him, squatting on the balls of his feet and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, ready to move when the ball was hit.
He had the kid playing catcher. Muddy handled the outfield, and Hank was pitching and covering the only base. With such small numbers they played one base and home.
Strikes only counted if they swung and missed. Balls, well, the last he’d heard the National League couldn’t decide if seven, eight, or nine balls constituted a walk, so he decided not to count ’em.
The ladies were up first.
“Batter up!”
Smitty and Lydia both stopped talking and turned to look at him.
