The walk to the water took only minutes. Under Fetch's watchful eye, Libby and Sam maneuvered the flat-bottomed boat over to the dock so the three of them could climb aboard. Libby sat with her pet on the back seat, within easy reach of the outboard motor. To keep their weight in the rear half the boat, Sam took the middle seat, thus expediting the trip across the lake.
"I know some great spots." Sam glanced out over the sunrise-tinted water. He remembered the last time he'd gone fishing there—so many months ago—and how good it had felt to know the lake belonged to him and his heirs.
Heirs? What heirs? Sam Knight had no heirs and never would have, since he didn't want to take another chance on the wife required to produce them. Oh, it wasn't that he didn't like children. He did. A lot, in fact. But as far as he was concerned, marriage was too high a price to pay for a couple of legitimate offspring, especially when the likelihood of divorce was so great. He'd come from a broken home, himself, and wouldn't wish that on any kid.
Now if things were different—if Libby were right and two people really could live happily together—marriage might not be so bad. There were definitely some benefits, like having someone share the bad times, someone to bring the good, someone to laugh with, talk with, play with... Someone to love.
Sometimes—like last night—Sam needed someone to love.
So buy yourself a parakeet.
Sam frowned, disgusted with the maudlin direction his thoughts had taken. Obviously Wildwood had gotten under his skin, opening old wounds, resurrecting old dreams, just as he'd feared it would. And that, of course, explained his sleepless night and the heaviness in his heart. Well, it was time to get hold of himself. Contrary to what Ms. Libby Turner believed, forever afters only happened in fairytales.
Sam preferred nonfiction.
"I guess I should warn you that we won't be alone this morning," Libby said from behind him. Her words barely dented his distraction.
"Hm?"
"We're going to have company. Are you awake?"
"Of course I am." Sam got a grip on himself with difficulty. He glanced at the thermos lying at his feet. "Is that coffee you brought?"
"Yes."
"Mind if I...?"
"Help yourself."
While Libby cranked the old motor, Sam reached for the thermos and the hot coffee he hoped would dissolve his stupor. He drank fast, trying to finish before takeoff.
The front of the boat tipped up as they accelerated, barely skimming the glistening water. Frosty morning air ripped by Sam, tugging at his clothes. Totally revived now, he glanced back. One hand on the steering throttle, the other holding her hair back out of her eyes, Libby concentrated on guiding the speeding boat. Her face positively glowed, and Sam grinned, pleased that she seemed to be enjoying the outing as much as he. Not that many women—at least not the ones he dealt with these days—liked angling. Libby handled the boat like a pro and was clearly the exception.
To his surprise she headed the boat to a small inlet not visible from the rest of the resort. There, nestled deep in the woods, sat the old log cabin Sam had asked about on Friday night. Left over from frontier days, it had obviously been remodeled, but it was still a vision of rustic beauty. He wouldn't have been surprised to see Daniel Boone standing at the door.
But it wasn't Daniel who stepped out when Libby killed the motor and let the boat bump to a halt against the rocky shoreline. It was Kris Kringle...or a very reasonable facsimile. Dressed in denim overalls and a bright red flannel shirt, a bearded bear of a man raised an arm to wave.
Libby yelled a greeting. "Hey there!" She got to her feet, stepped carefully over the tackle box and snatched up the sack as she made her way to the front of the boat. When she got even with Sam, he stood, effectively blocking her path.
"Who's that?" He glanced back over his shoulder toward the rotund gentleman fast approaching.
"Why, one of the Ghosts of Marriage Past, of course." She slipped by to scramble out of the front of the boat. Fetch didn't waste a moment, either. Leaping right over the side into the water, he splashed his way to dry land where he shook himself off. Stunned by Libby's revelation, Sam moved much more slowly, not quite sure what to make of the old man who'd caught Libby up in a hug.
At that moment, a plump, gray-haired woman who could only be Mrs. Kringle—or was it Mrs. Ghost?—appeared at the corner of the cabin, stopping short when she saw the three of them. Her rosy cheeks rounded even more when she smiled. She, too, waved and hurried lakeside.
"Sam," Libby said, touching her free hand to his arm. "These are my grandparents, Edwin and Martha Turner. Mamaw, Papaw, this is the owner of Wildwood, Sam Knight."
"It's a real pleasure." Edwin grasped Sam's hand in an iron grip and pumped it vigorously.
Still trying to assimilate what was happening, Sam barely managed to nod civilly in reply.
"You said you'd be here by seven-fifteen." Martha tugged Libby to her ample bosom even as her gaze swept Sam from head to toe. "We almost gave up on you two."
"Sorry." Libby eased free of her embrace. She looked pointedly at Sam. "We had a little...complication."
He nearly choked. Little complication? That stated their bedroom tussle a bit mildly. His life would never be the same. "You two are ghosts...er, guests here?"
"We're celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary," Martha told him proudly, tucking her arms through her husband's. "This weekend at Wildwood is a gift from our grandchildren."
Sam's jaw dropped. "Did you say fiftieth?"
"That's right." Edwin beamed. "Fifty years ago today, me and the prettiest little miss in Arkansas slipped over the state line and tied the knot."
"I was about Libby's size then," Martha explained with a warm laugh.
"Fifty years." Sam shook his head. "But you two look so young."
"I'm sixty-nine," Edwin said. "Got married when I was nineteen. Martha here was only sixteen."
"And you stayed together all these years? That's...incredible."
"Sam's a lawyer," Libby said. "A divorce lawyer. He spends most of his time in court and doesn't believe in love and marriage anymore."
"Doesn't believe in love?" Martha said, clearly aghast.
"Or marriage?" Edwin added in disbelief. The two of them exchanged a glance as if Sam might be from another planet.
"No." Libby ignored her boss's glare of warning. "I thought you two might be a refreshing change for him."
"I should say," her grandmother murmured.
Edwin slapped Sam on the back, nearly knocking him off his feet. "Are you hungry, son? We've got homemade biscuits and Petit Jean ham waiting at the picnic table over there."
"And I've got breakfast rolls." Libby held up her sack.
"But what about the fishing trip?" Sam glanced longingly toward the lake and escape from these charming ghosts. Like another Scrooge, he wasn't so sure he wanted to learn what they had to teach.
"All in good time," Libby told him. "All in good time."
The sun had chased away the morning fog before the four of them finished their leisurely breakfast. Sam, who'd watched the older couple closely all through the meal, took note of how they acted toward each other—so respectful, so in love—and after fifty years of living under the same roof. He found that enviable and downright mind-boggling, especially in light of his own and his parents' disastrous marriages. He half wondered if Libby had put her grandparents up to their loving display.
Determined to find out the truth, he glanced at his watch very deliberately and got to his feet. "Eight-thirty. If we wait much longer, we won't catch a thing."
Edwin stood, too. "Got a rod?"
"I brought both of us one." Libby yawned and threw her arms up in a lazy stretched that tightened her sweatshirt and its sexy suggestion over her full breasts. Intensely aware of her, as always, Sam had to glance away to keep his thoughts in line.
"If it's all the same to you guys," Libby said. "I think I'll keep Mamaw and Fetch company."
"That's fine with me." Not only did Sam need time away from Libby, he wanted to be alone with her grandfather.
Edwin nodded genial agreement. He gathered up his own rod and tackle box from the cabin and, minutes later, joined Sam, who already waited in the boat. By eight-forty-five the two of them were drifting down the west bank of the lake, casting and then reeling in the crank baits they hoped would lure a keeper bass.
"Mr. Turner?" Sam checked out the bait he'd just freed from a sunken log.
"My friends call me Edwin." Smiling, the old man cast his rod with an expert flick of the wrist.
"All right. I want to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me when you answer."
"Sure." Edwin never shifted his eyes from his fishing line and the bait now bobbing its way back to the boat.
"Do you ever regret getting married so young—spending your whole life with just one woman?"
"Nope."
"And there's nothing you'd change if you could do it all again?"
"Nothing, but..." Edwin stopped reeling in the line and glanced uneasily toward the two woman still sitting at the picnic table.
"But what?" Sam prompted softly, certain Edwin was going to admit that his marriage might not be so perfect after all.
"Well, I've been with Martha since my teens—"
"And you wish you'd sowed a few wild oats before you got married?"
Edwin threw back his head, laughing heartily. "Hell, no. That woman and I sowed our wild oats together. Had a damn good time doing it, too." Again he glanced toward his wife and granddaughter. His smile slowly faded. "You won't repeat this?"
Now very curious, Sam shook his head.
"Martha had a bout with pneumonia last winter—almost died. Seems like she's gone down some since then, and I can't help but worry about her passing before I do." His dark eyes met Sam's. "I guess this may sound selfish, but I want to go first. I don't think I can live without her."
Touched to the heart by that reluctant confession, Sam blinked to clear his suddenly blurred vision. So this is love, he thought. Real love. The kind Libby wanted. Well, he didn't much blame her for waiting now. Almost wished he were the kind of man who could give it to her. But he wasn't. Few mortal men could ever fulfill her unrealistic expectations, and with his battle scars, he was especially inadequate.
All of a sudden, that bothered him.
"You're wife looks like the picture of health to me, Mr., uh, Edwin."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes, sir, I do. I should be so fit at sixty-six."
Edwin nodded solemnly, as though somewhat reassured. "We walk two miles every day, you know. To keep fit."
"That's more than I do," Sam said. "And I wouldn't be surprised if you live to be a hundred. Both of you."
Edwin smiled slowly and opened his mouth as though to speak, abandoning that when his line went taut. The next two minutes were filled with splashes, curses, and laughter as Libby's grandfather landed one of the biggest bass Sam had ever seen. Inspired by the sight of the beautifully marked fish, Sam turned his full attention to the sport he loved best. They spent three relaxing hours fishing before Libby got their attention and motioned for them to come back.
Edwin, displaying three bass he'd kept on the stringer, invited Sam and Libby stay for a lunchtime meal of fried fish.
"We can't," Libby quickly replied before Sam could get his own "we'd love to" out. "We have another luncheon engagement."
Sam flicked her a look of surprise, but held his tongue. They said their goodbyes, walking back to the boat, where Sam caught her arm. "What luncheon engagement?"
"We're meeting the Ghosts of Marriage Present in the restaurant at noon," Libby told him. Ignoring his immediate groan of protest, she whistled for the dog that had long since grown weary of sitting at the picnic table.
Fetch bounded from the woods and whatever mischief he'd been into, joining them with a leap that almost flipped the craft. Sam wouldn't allow her to pilot the boat back to the dock. Humoring him, she sat on the middle seat so he could do the honors.
When they got to the shore a short time later, Libby and Fetch climbed quickly out of the boat. She glanced at her watch. "It's twenty minutes until noon. We have just enough time to clean up before lunch."
"Hold it." Sam joined her on the weathered wooden planks. "I have something to say to you first."
Libby turned toward him rather hesitantly, not quite sure what to expect. Had one set of ghosts been enough for him? Was he now a changed man, ready to keep Wildwood, maybe even ready to give romance a try himself? Or was he tired of her agenda and now wanting to call the whole thing off?
Sam grasped Libby's shoulders in his hands. His electric-blue gaze caught and held hers, sending a deadly charge right to her heart. It was all she could do not to steal the kiss that had been on her mind during breakfast and the interminable hours of fishing that followed.
"Having met your grandparents, I now understand why you have so much faith in forever after. Baby, you have been brainwashed."
"I have not!" All thoughts of kissing—and fishing—vanished to parts unknown. Libby twisted free of his iron grip.
"Oh yes, you have." Sam shook a finger at her. "And you'll never come face-to-face with reality as long as you hide up here at Wildwood, associating yourself with other romantics who share your belief in the impossible. Talk about losing your perspective..."
"I am not hiding, and I have not lost my perspective. For your information, Mr. Know-It-All, the reason I believe in happy marriages is because I'm the byproduct of a long line of them."
"Yeah, well, I'm not, so it's hard for me to relate—" He suddenly sneezed twice in succession.
"Did you catch a cold Friday night?" Libby frowned.
"No one really catches cold from getting wet. It takes a germ. And I'm never sick." Sam looked accusingly at Fetch, busily stalking an unsuspecting squirrel a few feet away. "I'll bet I'm allergic to that mutt of years."
"I'll have you know that 'mutt' is my best friend." From the look of things, the longevity of her grandparents' marriage hadn't impressed him one bit. That left her only two more chances to show him the error of his ways.
"My point exactly. Your living life secondhand up here, Libby. You have a dog for best friend and nothing but a dream lover to keep you warm at night." He shook his head in disgust. "Your expectations are way too high. You're holding out for a hero who isn't going to show up."
"But he will." Libby was cut to the quick by his gloomy prediction.
"He won't. He doesn't exist." Sam sighed heavily. "Visit the real world sometime. Talk with some of its living citizens instead of these crazy ghosts. You might learn something."
"If it's going to make me is bitter as you, I think I'll pass." Hot tears of anger and frustration stung her eyes. Mortified that she might break down in front of Sam, she whirled away, managing two steps before he caught up with her and pulled her roughly into his arms.
He didn't say a word, just held her tightly to his thudding heart for a second. He tucked a hand under her chin, lifting it until she had to look up at him. His fingertip captured a solitary tear snaking its way down her cheek. He touched his tongue to it and covered her lips in a long, hard kiss before he released her to step abruptly back. "Did you say lunch is at noon in the restaurant?"
Dazed, Libby managed a half nod.
"I'll be there."
A second later she stood alone on the deck.