Chapter 8
Brett parked his Camaro inside the freestanding garage he’d had built after he bought his house. Shaped like a stable, the red building had three double-size white garage doors. It housed all the girls, plus a small truck and trailer that he used to haul the cars to shows. The house had an attached garage where he kept his late model BMW, which he drove on a regular basis.
As he walked from the garage to the house, he glanced at Natalie’s last text.
Game on.
He definitely felt something was on. Inside him, body chemicals churned, creating excitement and euphoria. Some doctors referred to the phenomenon as the “first flush of love,” a phase when infatuation rules the heart and common sense takes a hike.
“You’re not a teenager,” he told himself as he pocketed his phone, resisting the urge to call her for no good reason. Yet Natalie dominated his thoughts.
He walked inside the still house and wished he weren’t alone. He would have been one happy camper if Natalie had been there to smother him with more hot kisses, like she’d done at the waterfall. Natalie knew how to use her tongue. All his instincts told him she’d be great in the sack.
He got a beer out of the fridge and went to his study. He settled down at his desk, fired up his laptop, and answered a couple of emails from his stockbroker. He had the usual deluge of emails regarding medical conferences, publications, and pharmaceuticals, as well as a few female acquaintances just keeping in touch and some inquiries from other car aficionados. Above all this noise, Natalie remained in the forefront, occupying his mind.
She was fun, sexy, and probably the most compelling woman he had met in a long time. He rocked back in the chair, drank his beer, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Natalie Layton compelling? Man, have you lost it? Just worry about the old lady.
He leaned forward, looking at the keyboard. Don’t do it. Another warning from what was left of his common sense. She’s a Layton. She comes from a different world. Let it go.
Yet her name sang through his heart, and he wanted to know more about her. How was it that she had transformed into a remarkable woman who was contemplative and insightful? A woman who had the courage to wade into war zones with a camera. Who would have thought?
He moved his hands to the keyboard and typed in Natalie Spencer. He had noticed that was her married name when he had been looking at her photography awards. The search revealed she had a website, and he clicked on it.
The background was transparent photography of a castle, and Natalie had dedicated the website, called Journey to Camelot, to her mother, Susan, and her husband, Aidan. None of her vivid war photographs were on the landing page. Instead, there was a collage of soft photographs. A rose covered in dew. A sunrise over a rocky coast. An English cottage surrounded by mist. There was a photograph of Natalie holding hands with a dark-haired young man as they walked on a beach.
Brett clicked on the link entitled My Journey and began to read the autobiographical essay Natalie had written about the journey that had changed her life. She wrote a few sentences about her hometown in Tennessee and her family before she focused on her mother.
She loved the Arthurian legends and the time period when castles and chivalry flourished. She had dozens of books about King Arthur and Camelot. Together, we read all the stories about the Knights of the Round Table and the legends surrounding Camelot. My grandparents lived in a house that resembled a castle, and my mother loved to go there.
When I was twelve, Mom told me that the year I graduated from high school, we would spend the summer in Europe touring castles. We began collecting travel books and making lists of all the places we would go and the castles where we would stay.
Mom said it would be our special trip. Just the two of us.
She died the summer before I started high school. She had been sick for over a year, and the last thing she said to me was, “I’ll see you in Camelot, angel.”
After that, I was adrift. My mother had always been my anchor. She was always there for me. No matter what, I knew I could count on her. She picked me up every time I fell. I went on with my life, pretending I was fine, but I couldn’t make myself care. There was a boy in school who thought I was such a loser.
Brett quit reading for a moment. He’d never thought she was a loser, but he could understand why she assumed that. He had just seen what he wanted to see in her. An unattainable, spoiled, rich girl who didn’t value her advantages. He had said some shitty things, and that made him the loser.
Sometimes he hurt my feelings, but he was right most of the time. I didn’t put forth any effort when it came to class work, and most of the time, I wasn’t paying attention because I was missing my mom. Reliving memories of her. I kept my grief bottled up inside me because I was a kid and I didn’t know what else to do.
At the beginning of my senior year, my father told me my mother had set up a trust fund for me and that it would pay for the trip to Europe she had promised me. I was so thrilled that I would get to take the trip she and I had planned. I was going to Camelot. Nothing else mattered.
I boarded a jet for England in June. For the first time in years, my heart soared with joy. I felt my mother was with me in spirit and that the trip to Camelot was going to change my life.
He stopped reading again because he knew what came next. She had met a guy who hadn’t made her feel like a loser, and she had fallen in love. Brett clicked the mouse, and the next page was a memorial to her late husband.
For Aidan
Who gave me the gift of his love.
Who never let me fail. Who always held my hand and said,
“You can.”
Who was always the wind beneath my wings.
My knight in shining armor. Then, now, and always.
Brett glanced at the photographs she had posted, which included a wedding photograph taken only months after her high school graduation. She was a young bride, kissing her new husband beneath a stone archway. They had gotten married at Alnwick Castle, where they had met. Camelot.
There were several snapshots of them when they were college students. They were young and joyous. Of course, it’s easy to be carefree when you’re twenty and madly in love, he thought as if he had some insight into that experience, which he didn’t.
He reached for his beer. He had never experienced that young, carefree, and in love stuff. In college, love had not been on his agenda. In pre-med, he didn’t have time for frolicking about the campus. He had taken summer classes so he could graduate early and move on to medical school. He always had objectives to accomplish.
At the present, he was cementing his medical practice in Lafayette Falls, and things had been going well for him. He enjoyed his work, his cars, his friends, and life in general. But he had shied away from settling down and getting married.
He had never been part of a normal family who had dinners together and celebrated holidays and birthdays. After his mother had dumped him on his uncle when he was four years old, she had died less than a year later. A drinking binge at a party put an end to her life at the young age of twenty-three. He had no memory of her, and there was no father in the picture.
His family had consisted of his two uncles. Mark said very little, worked in the garage all day and went to bed early. He had provided Brett with a home and a stable environment. Tommy drank a lot, fought a lot, stayed in jail a lot, and went through four wives before his life ended one night when he missed a curve and plowed his car into a tree.
Brett didn’t know how the family thing worked, and he’d never felt comfortable with the idea. Maybe he’d be a total failure when it came to being a family man. So he had avoided that kind of commitment for years. Apprehension nagged at his heart.
Natalie Layton. She was now and always had been the impossible dream.
He closed the laptop and pushed to his feet. When he felt edgy and doubtful, he usually did something constructive to work it off. He headed to the garage, where he spent the next couple of hours washing and waxing Rhonda, inside and out.
By the time he was finished, the Road Runner’s blue body was sparkling, and her interior was pristine. For good measure, he leaned over the bucket seat up front and squirted a little bit of light, airy car freshener on the backseat.
“Just in case we get lucky,” he told Rhonda with a grin.
At precisely quarter to seven that evening, Brett turned Rhonda into the long drive that circled the front of the large turn-of-the-century mansion, which did resemble a castle with its octagonal towers and roof spires.
Victorian lampposts stood along the drive in front of the house, and Brett parked Rhonda in the lamplight. No doubt the first thing Natalie would see when she opened the door was the Road Runner. He chuckled as he stepped out of the car and into the warm fall night.
“You’re looking way too smug.” Natalie’s voice came from above, and he looked up to see her standing on a small, shadowy balcony made of stone.
He smiled and pressed his hand against his chest. “What light through yon window breaks?” That was as much as he could remember.
“Shakespeare?” She laughed.
“Yeah.” Romeo and Juliet. She looked something like a modern-day Juliet standing on the balcony. Her hair was pinned up, and she wore a long, snug-fitting red dress with a high neckline.
“Brett, don’t mention Shakespeare in front of Nana.”
“Really?”
“Not unless you’re an authority on Shakespeare. She helped my grandfather write a dissertation on Shakespeare. She knows Shakespeare.”
He was no authority. He had taken the required classes in literature and seen a few plays. That was it. “All right. Any more advice?”
“Remember your manners. She’s a stickler for excellent manners.”
He smoothed the front of his jacket. “I’m on my best behavior.”
“Good luck.”
When she turned to go, he saw her red dress was backless, open from the shoulders to the waist. Secured at the base of her waist and riding just above her hips was a large red bow. He exhaled and took a minute, standing in the drive with his hands in the pockets of his trousers.
Some things in life are just not fair.
“Oh, Brett.” She rushed back to the edge of the balcony. “I forgot about the cat. Don’t mess with Pharaoh. He loves to fight.”
“You want to go someplace and talk about this?” The last thing on his mind was talking. But, hey, whatever worked.
“What?” She frowned. “No. We don’t have time. Nana hates people who are late, and in a few minutes, you’re going to be late.”
He started up the walkway, and she stopped him again. “One more thing. Try not to use any slang. Nana doesn’t like slang. Try to sound as intellectual as possible.”
“Okay. No Shakespeare. Good manners. Don’t mess with the cat, and sound intellectual. Got it.” He glanced up as she started back inside. He got a full view of her backside and the bow. “Hey,” he called. “How come you’re helping me out? You want to lose?”
Dream big, Romeo.
“No,” she answered. “I just want you to know that I won fairly.”
The doorbell mystified Brett for a moment. It had an antique brass handle rather than a button. Did it even work? He turned the handle and heard a bell ring from inside the house. He glanced at the fall wreath decorating the door. Covered with warmly-colored flowers, leaves and berries, the wreath was inviting. Nice, he thought.
As he waited, he straightened his cuffs. When he had been choosing his clothes for tonight, he had decided on the sophisticated look of all black. Black Armani sports coat over a black linen shirt with the collar open, pleated black trousers, and leather oxfords.
He was clean-shaven, smelling good, refreshed after taking a nap, and feeling positive about meeting Mrs. Layton as well as securing the chief of cardiology position and having sex in the backseat of the Road Runner. I’ve got this.
The door hinges creaked as the door opened, and a gracious older woman smiled at him. He smiled back. Piece of cake.
She was a petite lady with short wisps of silver gray hair framing her round face. A floral tunic drenched her body with vibrant color. Red, yellow, and purple flowers swirled across blue satin. She wore matching blue slacks, yellow slippers, and a chunky yellow necklace.
“Come in.” She fluttered like a cheerful butterfly, and Brett grinned as he stepped in the house. Behind a pair of glasses, she had blue eyes that resembled Natalie’s. “You must be Doctor Harris.”
The sound of excitement in her voice gave him hope. “I am.”
“It is so good to meet a friend of Natalie’s.” She beamed. “And you are such a handsome boy, too.”
“Thank you,” he accepted the compliment with a broad smile. “I’m honored to be your guest, Mrs. Layton.”
“Oh, no. I’m Clara,” she said. “Clara Lawrence.” She shook his hand. “I’m Anna’s sister. After my husband, Walter, passed away, I moved here. Come, I’ll show you to the parlor.”
Brett glanced around the entrance hall as he followed Clara to an adjoining room. Like most nineteenth-century homes, the pocket doorways, trim work, and floors were made of dark wood. Walls, sixteen feet high, accommodated large oil paintings of medieval landscapes and heraldry flags. A complete suit of armor stood in an alcove beneath a sweeping staircase. He halfway expected to hear the clanging of swords.
“You have a lovely home,” he said, taking in the large parlor, which looked as if it belonged in one of those BBC period pieces, complete with dainty armchairs, a massive chandelier, a glossy center table, and portraits of people who had lived two hundred years ago on the walls. It was the kind of room that made him appreciate his comfortable, modern home.
“The front half of the house is pretty much like it was when it was built. The furnishings and décor are original to the house,” Clara said. “This is the part of the house that we show when the house is open for tours during the spring. Our living quarters in the back half of the house are very up-to-date. Thank God,” she added with a nod.
“I agree.”
“Would you like a margarita? Anna and I were having a drink earlier. There’s some left.”
“Maybe later.”
“All right. I need to go check on the dinner. Oh, I did get the banana pudding made.” Clara patted him on the arm. “Natalie asked me to make it just for you.”
“That Natalie.” He continued smiling. He hadn’t eaten any banana pudding since the day Natalie dumped a bowl of it on his head. Something about the smell of it. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for doing that. I know I’ll love it. I’m just a banana pudding kind of guy.”
“I like you.” Clara seemed to have made some sort of judgment as to his character. “I told Anna she should give you a chance, but she can be so mulish with her opinions. I know you’re not Indiana Jones, but you might be the next best thing.”
Brett nodded, even though what she said made no sense.
“Natalie should be down in a moment.”
Clara left him in the parlor, where he shifted his weight from one foot to another. He thought of taking a seat, but he wasn’t certain about the antique furniture. Maybe you weren’t supposed to touch it. He kept his hands in his pockets.
The sofa and chairs were covered in dark green brocade and had short curved legs. At his height, if he sat in one of the chairs, it would be awkward. Like practically sitting on the floor.
He decided to remain standing. He checked out the paintings of the Layton ancestors. Then he looked at his reflection in the pier mirror. Not bad. He strode over to the fireplace and studied the amazing clock on the mantel. The case featured oak leaves and acorns carved in the mahogany wood.
He caught a movement in his peripheral vision and glanced at the floor just in time to see something black with a white stripe down its back shoot under the center table. He gave a start, his first thought being that a skunk was in the house.
Then it appeared again, coming to a halt between the table and the sofa. He saw it was a muscular cat with a solid black face and gold eyes.
“Hey, kitty,” Brett said in the high-pitched tone you always used for pets and babies. “Man, I thought you were a skunk. Huh.”
The cat immediately arched its spine and let out a hiss. Brett backed away. “Nice kitty.” He eased to the other side of the center table, where he thought he was safe. The next thing he knew the cat was on top of the center table.
The big cat crouched on the table and peered around a centerpiece of silk roses. Staring at Brett, it let out a low guttural yowl. Was that thug cat for “You wanna step outside, asshole?”
“Shit,” Brett muttered. How far could that cat jump? All he needed was for the old lady’s cat to attack him. He glanced toward the door leading into the entrance hall. Could he make it into the hall without the cat pouncing on him?
“Brett.” Natalie appeared in the doorway, and he had never been more thankful to see her. “I told you not to mess with the cat.”
“I didn’t mess with the cat. It just showed up, and all I said was ‘Nice kitty,’ and the next thing I know it’s ready to attack.”
“Pharaoh is not a nice kitty. Are you, Pharaoh?” She smiled at the cat, whose attention was still centered on Brett as if it were contemplating when to strike. “You want fish? Go to your bowl in the kitchen.” She clapped her hands, and Pharaoh lost interest in Brett immediately. He hopped off the table and trotted out of the parlor without giving them a second look.
“Magic words,” Natalie assured Brett. “Clara will give him some tuna.”
“Will he stay in the kitchen?” Brett wanted to be prepared in case the aggressive cat returned.
“For a while.” Natalie strolled into the parlor. She stopped across from him at the center table. The pier mirror behind her gave him an excellent view of her bare back and the red bow at her waist. He had this wild desire to run his hand over her shoulder blades and down her spine. Maybe fool with that red bow.
Despite having a modest front, the dress radiated sex appeal. “That’s a hot dress.”
She flushed slightly and smoothed the slim skirt. “Elvis thought so.”
“Elvis who?”
“The Elvis. The King,” she answered. “Of course, he didn’t say it was a hot dress, but he liked it.”
Brett cocked his head, and she said, “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. This dress is from the nineteen sixties. I found it in the attic. After my dad sold our house a few years ago, he brought a lot of stuff over here and stored it for me.
“This dress belonged to my mother’s mother. When she was in her twenties, she worked as a backup singer for some studios in Nashville and Memphis. According to the note I found with this dress, she wore it to a party at Graceland, and Elvis was very impressed.”
“I bet he was.” I bet he got a hold of that red bow.
“Speaking of bets, what time can I come over tomorrow and pick up Cathy?”
He sidled up beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her body. He couldn’t resist sliding his hand down her bare back. He heard her breath hitch, so he kept stroking. “When do I get to take this dress off of you?”
She looked at him, her lips parted as if she were going to kiss him. Instead, she stepped away from him, gave her head a feisty shake, and did her Miss Piggy imitation. “Moi would not have made the bet if moi thought moi would lose.” She fluttered her dark lashes.
“Moi may be in trouble.” He eyed her mouth, hungry to kiss her again.
“Natalie, darling.” A woman’s voice echoed down the cavernous hallway.
Natalie smoothed her skirt. “We’re in the front parlor, Nana,” she called, and she gave Brett an amused glance. “I’m so looking forward to this. You have no idea.”
“I’m looking forward to afterward,” he threw back in a husky voice and her cheeks flushed.
“Not gonna happen,” she murmured. She walked over to the parlor doorway to greet her grandmother.