Celia took a deep, nervous breath, trying to calm the fluttering muscles of her stomach. What on earth had possessed her to involve Reese in this mess? She’d reacted instinctively, knowing she’d had no time to waste. And knowing Reese was safe. The one thing she did know was that he couldn’t possibly be involved. That would have required him to be in the area in the last few years.
“I was looking for drug smuggling activity.”
“Drug smugglers?” He sounded incredulous. The faint air of hostility she’d sensed from him disappeared as he sat up straight and stared at her.
She perched on the edge of the couch and clasped her hands together. “It’s imperative that none of the clients along the dock learn about it.”
“Why?”
“It’s possible that someone moored here could be a part of a drug operation.”
“So when I came along and blew the whistle, you decided to use me as a cover?” Reese’s eyes were intent, unsmiling.
She shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do. You were shouting loud enough to wake folks on the other side of town.”
The side of his mouth twitched, as if he were struggling not to smile. “Sorry.” He leaned back against the rough fabric of the chair, stretched out his long legs, then looked at her skeptically. “Drug smuggling?”
She popped up off the couch, uncomfortable with his questions and annoyed at the derisive tone. “I’m not crazy,” she said defensively. “You’d be amazed at the amount of illegal stuff that goes on around here.”
He laughed aloud, but she had the sense that he was laughing at her rather than with her. “I’ve been in dozens of harbors along dozens of shorelines and, believe me, I’ve seen more kinds of ‘illegal stuff’ than you could imagine. I’m just wondering what you think you can do about it.”
“Maybe nothing.” She carefully looked past him, hoping her face wasn’t too transparent.
“Celia.” He waited until she reluctantly dragged her gaze back to mesh with his. “You could be putting yourself in serious danger. Drug runners are criminals. They wouldn’t think twice about hurting you if they caught you spying on them. Leave the investigation to the law enforcement guys who get paid to do it.”
She wanted to laugh, an entirely inappropriate reaction, and she bit the inside of her lip hard. If he only knew! “I’ll be careful,” she said.
“Careful isn’t good enough.” His tone was harsh. “Do you think I’m kidding about getting hurt? This isn’t a game—”
“I know it’s not!” Her voice overrode his. “They killed my husband and my son.” Dear God, help me. She couldn’t believe she’d blurted that out.
The words hung in the air, still stunning her after two years. She collapsed again on the couch like a balloon that had lost its helium, putting her face in her hands. An instant later she realized that Reese’s weight was settling onto the cushions beside her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. A large, warm hand settled on her back and rubbed gentle circles as if she were a baby in need of soothing. “I am so sorry, Celia. I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t expect you would.” She pressed the heels of her palms hard against her eyes, pushing back the tears. She wasn’t a crier; tears accomplished nothing but making you feel like you needed a nap to recharge the batteries you drained bawling. “It was just local news.” Except to me.
There was a small silence. “Tell me what happened.”
She hadn’t spoken of it in a long time. Not even to Roma, who she knew worried over her silence. But for some reason, she felt compelled to talk tonight. Maybe it was because she had a certain degree of familiarity with Reese due to their shared past. Maybe it was because he hadn’t known her family and therefore could be less emotionally involved. Most likely it was because she knew he wouldn’t be around long and it wouldn’t matter.
Drawing in a deep breath, she sighed heavily and shifted back against the couch, her hands falling limp in her lap. Reese sat close, his arm now draped along the back of the couch behind her shoulders. It should have bothered her, but the numbness that had been so familiar in that first horrible year of her bereavement was with her again, and she couldn’t work up the energy to mind.
“We only had been married for two years when Milo’s dad passed away and Milo was asked to take over as harbormaster. He’d been raised on the pier and he knew the work already.” She smiled briefly, looking into the past. “He was good at it. Everybody liked Milo.”
Reese didn’t speak, although she saw him nod encouragingly in her peripheral vision.
“Our son was born three years later. We named him Emilios, like his father and grandfather. Leo was his nickname. I had worked at the marina but I stayed home with him after he was born.” The numbness was fading and she concentrated on breathing deeply and evenly, forming the words with care. Anything to keep from letting the words shred her heart again.
“When Leo was two, Milo mentioned to me that he thought there was something funny going on down toward Monomoy Island. One night in September he came home and told me he’d called the FBI, that he was pretty certain some kind of illegal contraband was being brought ashore.”
“That was smart.” Reese’s voice was quiet.
“He didn’t know what else to do,” she said. “After he showed them where he thought the action was happening, he stayed away. The federal agents got a lot of information from him and that was it. Almost a year passed and nothing happened that we knew of. We figured they probably were proceeding cautiously, starting some kind of undercover operation. And then one day Milo took Leo with him on an errand over to Nantucket. Halfway across the sound, their boat exploded.”
Reese swore vividly. “What happened?”
She took another deep, careful breath. “At first I assumed it was an accident. Just a horrible, awful accident. And then federal agents came around one day and told me there had been an explosive device attached to the bottom of the boat. It had been detonated by someone close enough to see them go out on the water.”
She stopped speaking and there was silence in the room, broken only by the steady tick-tock of the old captain’s clock Milo’s father had restored. She wound it every morning when she came downstairs.
“How old was your—Leo?”
Her heart shrank from the question. She could deal with this if she just didn’t think too much about it. But she couldn’t talk about Leo. She just couldn’t. “Two and a half. He would have started kindergarten next year.” Her voice quavered. Shut up, shut up. Stop talking. “He was very blond, like I was as a child, and he had big velvety-brown eyes. He adored his daddy and there was nothing he loved better than going out on the…the boat w-with Milo.” Her voice was beginning to hitch as sobs forced their way out.
She felt Reese’s arms come hard around her, pulling her to his chest as the floodgates of long-suppressed grief opened. “Shh.” His voice came dimly through the storm of agony that swept over her.
“I wish—I w-wish I’d died, too.” She stuffed a fist in her mouth, appalled at voicing the thought that had lived in her head since the terrible day she’d buried her husband and her baby boy.
“Shh,” he said again. “I know.” She felt a big hand thread through her hair, cupping her scalp and gently massaging. He’d done that years ago, she remembered, when she’d been upset with her father’s reaction to him the day she’d introduced them.
Abruptly, it was all too much. Her father, her family, Reese…
She cried for a long, long time. Reese did nothing, simply held her while she soaked the front of his sweatshirt with tears. At one point he reached over to the end table and snagged a box of tissues—probably afraid she’d use his shirt to blow her nose—but he didn’t let go of her and as soon as he handed her a tissue he put his arm around her again.
His hands were big and warm and comforting. His arms made her feel ridiculously secure. She hadn’t allowed herself to lean on anyone in so long….
Reese tilted his head and glanced down at the sleeping woman in his arms. He’d been shaken to the core by her flat recital earlier. His problems, his issues with his family, seemed petty in comparison.
Not for the first time, he wondered if his parents were still living, if his siblings were all right. Some of them might be married now. For all he knew, he could be an uncle. He’d frozen them forever in his mind, but they’d moved on with their lives just as he had.
Although he really hadn’t. In more than a dozen years he’d done nothing of note besides win a few silly boat races here and there. He’d made plenty of money and given a lot of it away, but he couldn’t think of one single lasting thing of importance that he’d leave behind if he died tomorrow. Except Amalie, and he couldn’t take credit for her.
Celia must feel like that, too. Only it must be worse knowing that she had had something lasting and it was gone. A steady relationship and a child to carry on her genes—yes, it was much worse for her. He was sure her marriage had been good, just from the way she uttered her husband’s name, as if the mere speaking of it could evoke warm, fond feelings of affection. A ridiculous feeling of jealousy swept through him. She wasn’t his, hadn’t been his for years. She’d chosen another man. And yes, she’d definitely had something lasting…until it had been ripped away from her in one brutal moment.
Jealousy faded beneath compassion and pity. I wish I’d died, too. What would it be like to lose the people you loved most in the world? Particularly the child. God, losing someone close to you, a friend, was bad enough, as he well knew. And he had firsthand experience with a child who’d lost her parents. But to have your child go before you— He shivered, thinking of his adopted six-year-old daughter, Amalie, a bright butterfly flitting through his life, bringing radiant colors to his days. It wasn’t natural for any child to die and there was no way to accept it. He couldn’t even imagine what he would do if he ever lost Ammie.
And she wasn’t even his. Well, she was now, thanks to the adoption laws of the State of Florida. But her parents had been his best racing buddy, Kent, and his wife, Julie. They’d died at sea before Amalie’s second birthday and he’d been called on to honor his pledge to be Amalie’s godfather in a far more intimate way than any of them ever had expected.
He lifted one hand and wearily rubbed his temples. He needed to call down to the Keys where he’d made his home, to check in with Velva, his housekeeper, nanny and surrogate mother all rolled into one, to talk to Amalie. This was the first time he’d left her in the four years since her parents had died and he hadn’t been sure it was a good idea. But Velva and Amalie’s teacher both had urged him to take a few weeks for himself. He hadn’t sailed anywhere alone since Kent and Julie had died and he’d finally let himself be talked into this vacation. He’d decided to have one last carefree fling before selling the cruiser. He was a man who had responsibilities now. No more world-cruising for him.
One carefree fling? Ha. The minute you heard Celia was still around, you made plans to come back up here and see her for yourself.
He pulled his head back farther to look at Celia. Hard to believe she was lying here in his arms, even if it was only because she needed comfort. She’d wept silently, her slender body set in tense denial as huge tears rolled down her cheeks and soaked the fabric of both their shirts, until he’d told her to stop holding it in. And then she’d finally broken. She’d let him draw her against his chest and she’d sobbed and sobbed. Awful, desolate sounds that had made his own throat ache. How the hell long had it been since she’d let herself cry? Surely the woman had friends, if not family, around. She’d lived here all her life.
But there was something almost austere about Celia now that she hadn’t had when she was young. The woman she was now didn’t need people—or didn’t want to need them, he’d bet. The woman she’d been when he’d known her, a flower just in the first fresh moments of full bloom, had had no such boundaries. She’d been free with her hugs and her bright silvery laughter; her face had been open and alive, always smiling. And when she’d seen him coming, that smile had lit up the world.
As he thought of the girl he’d known, another memory floated through his head. It wasn’t of the first time they’d made love. Though he could remember that, too. She’d been a virgin and it hadn’t been particularly fun for her, he suspected, although she’d never told him so, and she’d made him feel like the king of the world.
No, the memory that haunted him was of an entirely different time….
“Reese! It’s the middle of summer a-and it’s broad daylight. There are tourists everywhere!”
He laughed, enjoying the way her eyes widened when he took her hand and pulled her down onto the deck of the catamaran, his purpose clear. It was a small boat with no cabin, but it did have a low railing around the deck. If they were careful… He’d fantasized about making love to Celia under the bright summer sun since the first time they’d been together more than two months ago.
“This little bay is fairly private, though.” He slid his hands over her bare, tanned torso, gently tugging at the strings that tied her bikini top into place until he could toss the scrap of cloth aside. “It’s an unwritten law of the sea. You never approach a moored boat if you’ve hailed them and nobody answers.”
Her finely arched eyebrows rose. “I can think of a dozen times I’ve broken that rule myself.”
But she wasn’t really arguing with him. Her small hands ran lightly up his arms, over the swell of his biceps and onto his shoulders, and she shivered, falling silent as he flicked his thumbs over her nipples, bringing them to beautiful taut points. He’d never seen her before in bright light and her skin was so satiny, her peaks and valleys so smoothly curved, that she literally stopped his breath.
“Celia.” He breathed her name as if it were a prayer, finding her mouth with easy familiarity, feeling the thrill that always shot through him at her instant response.
“I love you.” Her words were a whisper of sound, barely audible as he nibbled his way along her jaw, then slid his mouth down the tender column of her neck, pressing kisses to the delicate arch of her collarbone. He trailed his tongue along her skin, catching the faint scent that wasn’t perfume but merely the essence of her.
“You’re so beautiful.” His palms cupped the sweet weight of her breasts and he drew back just far enough to feast his eyes on the soft, feminine flesh he’d uncovered. Her nipples were a glowing coppery color, begging him to taste them, and he leaned down again, touching her with his tongue, lightly at first, then tugging her fully into his mouth to suckle one tender tip until she arched against him, twisting and crying out.
Smiling against her skin, he released one tight nubbin and blew on it. Celia’s eyes flew open. “Reese…” Her hands had been clutching his shoulders. Dragging them down over his chest, she indulged in a little teasing of her own, running her fingers through the dark mat of hair that spread across his breastbone and arrowed downward. She touched his flat nipples, rubbing small circles, making his breath come faster as the sensation triggered an even more intense need within him.
As she trailed one finger down along the ribbon of hair to his navel and beyond, he stripped out of his bathing suit one-handed and kicked it away without leaving her. The mere act of freeing himself from the restrictions of clothing turned him on even more as he felt the warm air move over him, the sun hot on his back. All that lay between them now was one tiny piece of fabric. He stroked her ribs, her hips, her belly, moving slowly down her body, savoring her. He loved the feel of every smooth inch. His finger skimmed the delicate dip of her navel and farther, over her hipbone and down to where the elastic of her bathing suit bottom impeded his exploration.
With slow, deliberate motions, he slipped a finger beneath the elastic and ran it back and forth, then delved a bit deeper until his long fingers combed through the dense mat of curls between her legs. She was dewed and slippery, and she arched beneath him, one long silken leg curving up over his hip and pulling him hard against her. They both made small sounds of delight as their bodies reacted to the sweet pressure.
Gently, reluctantly, he slid away from her long enough to hook his fingers in the fabric and pull it down and off. Celia watched him, her breath rushing in and out, but as the sun poured over her gloriously naked body, she made a motion to cover herself with her hands. “This makes me feel…exposed.”
He chuckled, lowering himself to her, taking her wrists and pulling them up beside her shoulders as he covered her. He shifted, snuggling himself firmly into the cleft of her thighs, groaning a little at the exquisite pressure that resulted from sandwiching himself between them. “Is this better?”
She smiled up at him, her lips quivering slightly. “Yes. But what if someone—”
He covered her mouth with his own again, using his tongue to draw a response from her until she was fully engaged in the kiss. When he released her wrists she clasped his shoulders, clinging to him, pressing her bare flesh against his chest and making him growl with approval. He worked one hand between their bodies, bypassing his straining flesh in favor of the soft fleece that hid her feminine secrets. Slowly, slowly, he inched one finger down, until he felt the pouting bump beneath his finger. Equally slowly, he pressed and circled gently, ignoring his body’s urgent demands until she was writhing and frantic beneath him.
“Reese,” she begged him, tearing her mouth from his. “Reese…”
“What, baby?” He used the moment to push his hand farther between her thighs, loving the slick, moist heat and the fact that he’d been the one to make her respond that way. “Do you want me?”
She nodded, reaching one small hand down to encircle him. He groaned as an involuntary surge of excitement threatened his self-control. She’d only recently gotten brave enough to touch him but she was a fast learner and the mere thought of what she could do to him— Under the circumstances, he thought, it might not be such a good idea. As she traced one finger across the sensitive tip, he reared back, removing himself from her grasp. He set his hands on her inner thighs, pressing them apart and looking at the secret treasure they yielded.
Celia reached for him, her modesty all but forgotten. “Hurry…”
He was dragged from his reverie by Celia’s hand, which he held loosely in his, slowly rising to tuck her hair away from her face. It was only quick thinking that kept him from pulling her hand down to palm the hard ridge pushing at the front of his pants. Her eyelids fluttered as she stretched and he caught his breath, further aroused by both the memory and the soft slide of her body against his. Then her eyes opened and she blinked at him. “Reese.” She didn’t sound surprised, only cordial and a bit wary. “What time is it?”
He glanced at the old clock that had faithfully announced the hour as well as the half all night long. “Nearly six. Sleep well?”
“Nearly six?” She tried to shove herself upright. “Oh, no! You were here all night.”
“Yeah.” He held her easily in place though he was careful not to settle her too snugly into his lap. There was no way she could miss the evidence that would betray his thoughts if she lay against him any more closely. “Relax,” he said, stroking her back. “All we did was sleep. Literally.”
“Yes, but—”
“And you did make sure those folks down on the pier knew that I was coming home with you, remember? This will just make your story more convincing.”
She stopped pushing against him, but her body felt stiff. It made him realize just how much he’d liked having her draped bonelessly over him in slumber. They’d never slept together all night way back when…and he was reminded of his daydream before she woke.
Without giving himself time to think, he asked, “Do you remember the first time we did it on the boat? We fell asleep afterward and my butt got sunburned.”
“Reese!” A startled half laugh burst out of her and she sat up again, pushing herself away from him as he reluctantly let her go. “What brought that on?”
He shrugged, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “I was thinking about that summer.” He didn’t need to clarify. “So do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Remember.”
She was avoiding his eyes. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I remember.”
“That was the first time we ever made love on a boat.” He was gratified to see that she was breathing fast, her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath her soft T-shirt. Oh, yeah. She remembered.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” She shot off the couch and stood over him, rubbing her arms briskly as if she were cold and her velvety-brown eyes held a determined look. “Are you leaving?”
She wanted to get rid of him. His pleasure in teasing her died instantly and he narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you going to offer me breakfast?”
“I have to grab a shower and get down to the pier. We have a couple of charters going out early this morning.”
He decided he should get a gold star for not suggesting that they shower together. “All right,” he said. “You go shower and I’ll make breakfast. You have to eat or you’ll feel bad.”
Celia stood for a moment and he could almost see the argument going on in her head. If she let him in her kitchen while she showered, that would be a little more intimacy than she wanted. No, a lot more. But she’d been raised to be polite, and tossing him out without breakfast after he’d gone along with her story last night wouldn’t set well with her conscience.
Finally she said, “All right. Thank you,” in a tone so grudging that he nearly laughed aloud before she turned and walked out of the room without another word.
Reese got up and walked toward her kitchen, stopping at a little bathroom he found beneath the stairs on the way. The kitchen was shadowed in the first rays of dawn coming from a skylight that added a contemporary cachet to the old house. It was a charming combination of modern practicality and Cape Cod history, with Nantucket baskets and copper pots, a bowl of polished sea glass and shells. Two elegant seascapes graced the walls, and she’d laid hand-woven rugs and placemats, while a stunning wreath of cranberry and local greens hung above the old fireplace that now boasted a gas inset. His little village girl had done well for herself with her marriage.
Another image of Celia from all those years ago, standing on the dock waiting for him, flashed through his head as he started her coffeepot. God, how he’d loved her. Only a very young man could be that deeply, head-over-heels infatuated with a woman. He’d never felt anything remotely like it since, never expected to again. That kind of feeling couldn’t last.
Could it?
Of course not. He didn’t harbor any feelings for Celia anymore, and surely he would if that wild, exuberant, bone-deep infatuation had really been love.
Sure. That’s why you came flying over to this marina when the guys at Saquatucket told you she was harbormaster here now.
Simple curiosity. He’d wanted to see how she’d aged. At first he’d almost been disappointed to find that she looked nearly as youthful as she had the last time he’d seen her. He would always carry that image in his mind, because at the time, he hadn’t realized they’d never be together again. She’d been waving wildly from the dock as he’d taken the cat back to his family’s summer house, her slender body still warm from his caresses, lips swollen and eyes languorous as her hair streamed back from her face.
She still looked youthful, and initially he’d thought how little she’d changed. But as he’d drawn closer, changes had indeed been evident. She was slightly fuller in the breast and hip than she’d once been, a becoming difference. But the once-mobile lips were compressed, reluctant to curve into a smile, and her beautiful, soft, doe eyes were shadowed with secrets he couldn’t decipher. The girl had become a woman—an extraordinarily lovely woman—but her coming of age clearly hadn’t been smooth.
Upon the heels of the mild disappointment had been relief…and, if he was brutally truthful, an unkind pleasure that life hadn’t been all roses and moonlight for her.
And then she’d told him about her family and any lingering self-righteousness had fled in the face of the horror and sympathy her story evoked. He’d reached for her without thinking and it had felt so right when she’d come into his arms. So right that he’d been sorely tempted to jump her bones the next morning, like a total cad. Which he wasn’t.
Okay, you might have been noble this morning, but you wouldn’t say no to another close encounter, pal.
No. No, he wouldn’t. In fact, he could easily imagine staying the night with Celia—or having her snuggled in his queen berth aboard the yacht—every night while he was moored here in Harwichport.
He thought about her as he surveyed the contents of the refrigerator, withdrew two cinnamon buns and put them in the microwave. He should be grateful to her for showing him that what they’d shared hadn’t been real, even though it had hurt like hell at the time. She’d been the one who had made him realize that there was no such thing as real love. But he still liked her, just as a friend. And there was still an undeniable attraction between them….
He had three weeks’ vacation left, if he didn’t give in to the ridiculous urge to rush back to his daughter. Who, he reminded himself wryly, hadn’t seemed in the least perturbed at the idea of her adoptive father going on an extended trip. That was a good thing, he knew from talking with the counselor he’d consulted periodically since Kent and Julie had died. Ammie felt as secure and comfortable as any other well-adjusted kid with only one parent.
So that, at least, wasn’t something he had to worry about. It felt good—no, great—not to be worrying about Amalie. That was probably why Velva had kicked him out. She’d known he was far more apprehensive about a separation than his child would be.
So the bottom line was, his daughter would do fine without him for a few more weeks. Which meant he had plenty of time. He’d originally intended to stop briefly on the Cape, just to see how it had changed in the years since he’d been gone.
At least, that was what he’d told himself. But now, standing in Celia’s kitchen in the light of early morning, having held her in his arms throughout the night, he had to face the truth. He’d come back to find her.
He’d never imagined she might be single, or perhaps he hadn’t allowed himself to hope so, anyway. But she was. And so was he, and perhaps it was inevitable that they’d be drawn together again. After all, they shared a past no one else could ever take from them. She still felt comfortable with him at some elemental level she had yet to acknowledge or she never would have fallen asleep in his arms last night.
As he searched for napkins, mugs and plates, he thought about how revealing her actions had been. And he thought about how he’d felt as he’d held her in his arms again. It was difficult to admit he’d never gotten her out of his system. And he suspected that he had never been completely out of hers.
The telephone rang, interrupting his mental speculation. His eyebrows rose as he glanced at the clock. Damn early for a casual caller. He hoped nothing was wrong. It rang a second time, then a third. He couldn’t hear the shower running anymore but he didn’t hear Celia running for the phone, either. Did she have an answering machine? After the fifth ring, he decided she might not. With a mental shrug, he reached for the phone. She wanted people to think they were having a fling anyway, didn’t she?
“Hello?”
There was dead silence on the other end of the line. Then, “I beg your pardon. I believe I have a wrong number.” It was a quavery yet regal female voice, definitely a bit long in the tooth.
“Are you trying to reach Celia Papaleo?” He’d had time to practice the sound of it on the short trip from one marina to the other yesterday after he’d learned she was still around, but married.
“Why, yes,” the caller was saying. “I am looking for Mrs. Papaleo. Is this her residence?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is. May I take a message?”
“Yes, you may. Might I ask to whom I am speaking?” If this old dame wasn’t an English teacher in her day, he’d eat his shorts.
“This is Reese Barone, ma’am.” The courtesy came naturally; he’d been drilled in it as a child and even suffered through etiquette classes where he and his brothers had been forced to dance with obnoxious little girls and to practice manners.
“Well, Mr. Barone, my name is Hilda Manguard and I am the chairwoman of the Harwich Historical Society. I would like you to pass along the following message to Mrs. Papaleo. Ask her to return my call and confirm that she will bring over the wreaths that she’s making for our annual Autumn House Tour. Please tell her that I apologize for calling so early but I’ve been trying to contact her without success all week.” And the old lady rattled off her number while Reese scrambled to find a pencil.
Just as he set the telephone back in the cradle, he heard a sound. He turned to find Celia standing in the doorway glaring at him. She wore jeans and a T-shirt beneath a V-necked fleece sweater designed to ward off the early morning chill. Her hair was slicked back from her face and already appeared to be half dry—which might explain why she hadn’t heard the phone ring.
“Hey,” he said, as if she weren’t looking like she’d enjoy skinning him. “You have a message.”
“What are you doing answering my phone?” she demanded.
“You didn’t,” he said. “And your machine didn’t kick on.”
“I don’t have one.” She practically snarled the words as she stalked toward him and snatched up the piece of paper on which he’d written the message. “Great. Now everybody on the Cape will know you were at my house at six in the morning.”
“Was she an English teacher?”
Celia looked at him blankly. “Who?”
“Mrs. Manguard. She sounded like an English teacher.”
“Miss. And yes, she was a long time ago. Then she became the principal of one of the elementary schools until she retired about twenty years ago.” She pointed to one of the two places he’d set at the table. “Sit. Eat. And then you’re leaving.”
He nodded, figuring he’d pressed his luck far enough. “All right.”
As she slipped into the seat across from him, he said, “So where are these wreaths you’re making for the historical society?”
“Oh, no!” She mimed smacking her palm against her forehead, then snatched up the note she’d laid on the table and hastily scanned it. “I forgot all about those wreaths. Why did I say I’d do that?” she asked herself.
“I take it this project isn’t quite finished?”
“It isn’t even started. I agreed to donate ten wreaths. They hang them in the homes on their annual house tour and sell chances on some of them. At the conclusion of the tour, the winners are drawn.” She wiped cinnamon glaze from her fingertips. “And they want them on Saturday.”
“Today is Thursday.”
“I know that.” From the tone of her voice, his helpfulness wasn’t appreciated.
“Are they cranberry wreaths like the one in your living room?”
“Some are. Others are made of marsh grasses and decorated with shells. Ack! And I’m out of marsh grass. Sometime before this evening I’ve got to get my hands on more.” She sighed. “This is not going to be a good day.”
“And that includes the way it started?” he asked wryly.
Her troubled gaze met his across the table. “Reese, I do appreciate you letting me cry all over you last night. And I can’t deny that your willingness to play along with my charade helped cover up my little trip out on the sound. So…thank you.” She stood and stacked both their empty plates, carrying them to the sink. “It’s been nice seeing you again.”
He stood, as well. “It’s good to see you, too.”
Busying herself at the sink, she spoke with her back to him. “I have to get down to the marina. You can let yourself out when you’re ready to leave. Just lock the door behind you.”
“May I see you again?”
She turned to face him and there was a remote quality in her sad eyes that told him the answer before she opened her mouth. “No,” she said. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.” She laid the dish towel out to dry and walked to the door, then turned back to him one more time. “Thank you.”
He stood in the kitchen as she let herself out and walked down the crushed-shell path. It might not be a good idea in her mind, but as far as he was concerned, it was a great one. She wasn’t indifferent to him, he was positive. There was nothing specific he could put his finger on, just a quickening feeling in his gut and the way her eyes danced around, never quite meeting his. She’d been exceedingly careful not to touch him after she’d woken up sprawled all over him, too.
As he locked her door and walked down the path after cleaning up her kitchen, Reese was whistling. He had a kayak to rent.