Breeze off the Ocean Read Free Page B

enlargement of a snapshot that had been taken on the front: lawn. Three figures stood under a mimosa tree. Micki’s mother was turned slightly from the camera as she smiled up at her husband, and between them Micki, at age six, her favorite doll clutched in her arms, grinned impishly at the camera. The picture had been snapped by a close friend of her mother’s the summer before her mother’s death in a fiery highway accident.
    Micki blinked over hot tears before shifting her gaze to the other side of the frame. It had been years since she’d really looked at the studio portrait of her mother and now, remembering her father’s words when she arrived, she studied the color shot carefully before lifting her eyes to her own reflection in the dressing-table mirror opposite the bed. Yes, the well-defined features were very similar: a slim, straight nose; high, though not prominent, cheekbones; softly rounded chin, although Micki’s did have a more determined cast. If the color in the photo was true, they shared the same bright blue eyes and fair skin tone. But her mother’s hair, worn long and smooth at the time, was a gleaming auburn with deep red highlights, whereas Micki’s, which she wore short in an attempt to control her loose, unruly curls, was a dark chestnut. Yes, there were similarities, but her mother had been beautiful, and in Micki’s own opinion, she was not
    With a brief, what-does-it-matter shrug, Micki replaced the frame, then stood eyeing her suitcases dispassionately. Sighing softly, she flicked the clasps of the largest case and opened the valise. Do it now, she told herself firmly, or everything will be crushed beyond wearing.
    Micki kicked off her sandals and moved silently over the plush carpeting as she placed her clothes in the closet and dresser drawers. When the bags were empty, Micki placed them against the wall beside the bedroom door for storage in the large hall closet in the morning, then turned back to the room, a tiny smile of satisfaction tugging at her lips. Everything about the room satisfied her.
    Her father had given her carte blanche in decorating it when she was sixteen, and now, nine years later, everything about the room still pleased her. Micki’s eyes sparkled as they skimmed the white wicker bed headboard, chair, low table, and clothes hamper. A stroke of genius that, she thought smugly. Who would have thought, nine years ago, that wicker would become so popular, not to mention expensive.
    Humming softly she slipped out of her white denim slacks and pulled her blue-and-white striped shirt over her head. Her lacy bra and filmy bikini briefs followed her slacks and shirt into the hamper. She put on a terry robe, pulled the belt tight, scooped up a short, sheer nightie, and made for the bathroom for a quick shower.
    Micki was patting her five-foot-two frame dry when she heard her father and Regina come up the stairs and go into their room. Gritting her teeth, she mentally clamped a lid on the flash of remembered pain and resentment the sound of their bedroom door closing sent through her. Always that sound, by the very intimate connotations it conjured, had had the power to hurt her, make her feel cut off from her father, bereft. Now she pushed those feelings away. You’re a full-grown woman, she told herself sternly, with a full, rich life of your own. Go to bed, go to sleep, what’s done is done and can’t be changed. Forget it.
    Minutes after she’d returned to her room, there was a soft tap on her door. Thinking it was her father coming to wish her a second good night, Micki called, “Come in,” without hesitation, then wished she hadn’t when she saw it was Regina. Fearing a repeat of their earlier conversation, Micki tried to forestall the older woman.
    “Whatever it is, Regina”—Micki faked a huge yawn— “could it wait until morning? I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
    Regina bit her bottom lip nervously, hesitated, then drew a deep, courage-gathering