“I thought you were at the party,” she said to him.
“I thought you had a headache,” he said to her.
“I did. It’s gone now.”
“Obviously.” He didn’t sound at all happy about her recovery.
“Would you like a hot dog?” she asked, moving toward the spot where the food was stashed.
“No, thanks. I already ate. At the party.”
Okay, he was pissed. Pastors weren’t supposed to get mad, were they?
The last of the light was vanishing and people were digging out their fireworks. At a nearby bonfire, a dad was lighting sparklers and handing them to his kids.
“How about a walk?” Paul suggested.
She wasn’t sure she wanted one-on-one time with him right then, but she nodded and they left the fire.
“Why did you really leave the party, Celeste?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
“I told you. I had a headache.”
“Did you?”
“I did.”
“But that wasn’t the only reason, was it? If you’d wanted to go to your sister’s party instead, all you had to do was say so.”
“I know.” She avoided looking at him, instead watching the first fireworks shoot into the sky.
“What’s going on here? Be honest. Don’t you want to go out with me?”
“Yes, of course I do,” she said earnestly. “It’s just...”
“What?” he prompted.
“Okay, if you want honest, here it is. I’m having trouble feeling like I belong.”
“You don’t feel like you belong?” He sounded honestly puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
Men were so clueless. “Some of the women don’t like me.”
“How could anyone not like you?”
“Well, duh. Competition, Paul. All the single women in your church have the itchy hots for you and only one of us is getting scratched.”
“You do have a way with words,” he said, and it didn’t exactly sound like a compliment.
“I have a way with a lot of things,” she said lightly. Then sobered. “What I don’t have a way with is bitches.” Uh-oh. That had definitely been the wrong thing to say. He looked...not so much shocked as disappointed. “Oh, this isn’t going to work. You need some sweet woman who plays the piano and likes to visit the sick. I can’t play a note and I break out in hives even walking into the lobby of a hospital.”
“No one’s asking you to play the piano or go to the hospital.”
“But you are asking me to fit in. I get that. You need me to. The problem is, I don’t feel I do. I usually have no trouble talking to people at a party, but today...” She shook her head. “I felt like I was in a foreign country and didn’t know the language. It was awkward. And I did have a headache.”
“That was my fault. I should’ve done a better job of introducing you around.”
“You were fine,” she said. “The problem was me. Look, Paul, I haven’t been in church for years, not since I was in high school.”
“But now you’re back. That’s what matters.”
She was back but not comfortable. Much as she wanted to think she was immune to the animosity of other women, the truth was that she was a people person, and being liked was important to her. She sure hadn’t felt liked at the party, and how was that ever going to change?
“Oh, Paul, we’re not a match. Can’t you see that?”
“Do you want us to be a match?” he asked softly.
“Yes, I do,” she said, barely able to raise her own voice above a whisper. “But the truth is, I think you’re too good for me.”
“Oh, brother,” he said, closing his eyes.
“It’s true. You are.”
“Celeste, get that idea out of your mind. I’m no better than anyone else. I’m just a man who’s trying to do what’s right.”
“Then do what’s right and find someone who’s better for you.” Oh, what was she saying? Paul was the best thing that had ever happened to her and she was driving him away. She wanted to cry. So she did.
“Hey,” he said gently, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Enough of this kind of talk. Celeste, I really like you. I like you more every time I see you. I know you’re not perfect, but neither am I. I think we could have something good together. More than good, even. Something great.”
“Do you?” She sounded like an eager puppy, like Nemo would if he could talk.
“Yes, I do. You’re fun and kindhearted. You love kids and adopt stray dogs. You love your family. You’re coming to church and getting involved, which, I’d say puts us on the same wave length spiritually. What more could a man want in a woman?”
“Someone his congregation likes.”
“Most of them do like you. As for the ones who don’t, that’s their problem, not yours.”
It sure felt like her problem. “You need someone who doesn’t say bad words.”
“I bet you could manage to lose a couple,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
She wasn’t convinced. Some words suited some people perfectly.
“Come on,” he urged. “Let’s give this a fair chance. Next time don’t run away. Tell me how you’re feeling.”
She chewed on her lower lip. She had run away. Good grief. Most of her life she’d been running into relationships and now she was running from one that could possibly work. She had to be insane.
He put a hand under her chin and nudged her face up. His expression was so tender. She couldn’t remember Emerson ever looking at her like that. She couldn’t remember any man looking at her like that. Maybe her father had, but she’d been too young to store it in her memory bank.
Then, even better, Paul went from looking to kissing. The kiss was as sweet as the look, and she let him draw her close, slipping her arms around his neck. So what if Paul Welch wasn’t the world’s best kisser? He was surely the world’s sweetest. He hadn’t said it yet, but she could tell he was falling in love with her. And, unlike Emerson, she knew, just knew, that she wouldn’t have to coax him into telling her he loved her. A man like Paul wouldn’t kiss a woman unless he intended to follow up that kiss with a serious relationship.
He didn’t go beyond the one kiss. Instead, he turned them around and led her back to the party, saying, “Come on. Let’s have fun.”
Oh, yes, in Paul Welch she’d finally found the perfect man.
* * *
Henry had watched Celeste and the boyfriend take off down the beach. Not even holding hands. Some boyfriend.
She’d left the other party early, left her date. Headache. Yeah, right. He had no idea what Celeste Jones was doing with that guy, but any fool could see she didn’t belong with him.
It was starting to get dark and people were bringing out their sparklers and artillery shells. He heard a burst of laughter from another group having a bonfire a little farther down the beach. He’d had enough fun for one night.
He thanked Jenna Jones and her great-aunt for letting him crash the party and then left, although Edie Patterson pressed him to stay and enjoy the fireworks. “The show’s just beginning,” she said.
Henry declined. He’d seen more of the show than he wanted.
The sister, on the other hand, didn’t press him to stay, and he was pretty sure he knew why. Celeste’s grand finale that landed her in his lap had been a shock, a very enjoyable one, but Henry was a people observer and even with the great sensations Celeste was causing, he’d managed to catch the expression on Jenna’s face. It said, “Oh, no. Not that lap.”
He’d also seen the expression on the preacher’s face. That one said, “Fire and brimstone for you, dude.”
The vote had been cast. Unanimous in favor of the preacher; Celeste’s future was already wrapped up. But if Henry was writing her story he sure wouldn’t put the
bubbly, bikini-wearing Celeste Jones with that guy. He wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like that.
Oh, and you would?
“Yeah,” he told himself. He might not have been as good-looking as the other guy but he was willing to bet he’d be ten times better in bed. Or on a blanket on the beach. Or leaning against a wall. Anywhere she wanted to do it. He was, after all, creative.
But there would be no getting creative with Celeste Jones.
* * *
Hank the happy clam... Celeste took a sip of her morning coffee and frowned at what she’d written on the legal tablet she’d snatched from Jenna’s massage room. Hank—wasn’t that a nickname for Henry? Not appropriate at all.
She scratched it out and tried again. Horace the happy clam... Okay, that was better. Horace the happy clam lay in his clam bed, dreaming of being chopped up and put into someone’s chowder. It was a terrible nightmare.
And this was a terrible idea. She crumpled the paper, returned the tablet to the massage room. Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a writer. Not everyone was. Anyway, the world needed readers as much as it did writers.
Still, it would be fun to try and write a book someday. If only she had someone to help her. There was someone who could help her. He was staying in room twelve.
There were plenty of other writers out there. Paul wrote sermons. He could probably help her, too. And wouldn’t that be fun to do together. There. See? Another reason Paul was the right man for her.
All the same, her heart fluttered a little as she approached room twelve with her cart of linens and cleaning supplies. She was relieved to find Henry gone. The incident the night before was one from which she’d just as soon distance herself. Anyway, with Henry gone, she could change the bed. Were writers good in bed?
Aack! What was she thinking? New leaf. Remember? She was turning over a new leaf and being smart about love.
To prove it she called Paul and offered to take him out to lunch.
She spared no expense, treating him to lunch at the Porthole and insisting they start with crab cocktails. The day was sunny and the view was lovely. So was Paul.
They chatted about their families. She told him about losing her father when she was a baby. “I wish I remembered something about him,” she finished sadly. “Anything.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to admit I can hardly imagine what that’s like. All I know is that I’d hate to lose my dad.”
“So he’s still alive?”
“Yep. He’s a pastor, too.” Paul gave a rueful smile. “I sure resented all the time he spent doing things for the church congregation when I was growing up. It seemed like everybody got more attention than my sister and me. She was an angel but I was a typical PK.”
“What’s a PK?” she asked.
“Preacher’s Kid. Notorious for doing stuff to embarrass the old man. I did my best to turn his hair gray, figuring negative attention was better than no attention.”
“I bet he’s proud of you now.”
“He is. So’s my mom.”
And what would they think of her? Would she give his father more gray hairs?
“He’d love you,” Paul said as if reading her mind. “So would my mom. I hope you can meet them.”
Already talking about bringing her home to meet the parents. That was a good sign. “I’d love to. Where do they live?”
“At the moment, in Burkina Faso, Africa.”
“Africa?” She and Paul wouldn’t be driving down to meet Mom and Dad anytime soon.
“They’re helping an organization down there that builds wells for villages.”
“Wow. And your sister? Where’s she?”
“She works for that organization, too.”
Of course. There wasn’t anyone in Paul Welch’s family who wasn’t noble. Would they like her? Really?
And would she like them? What if Paul decided he wanted to go to Africa and build wells? “Would you ever want to live in Africa?” She’d heard Africa was beautiful, but she couldn’t tolerate extreme heat and she didn’t want to get malaria. Then there was the unrest and danger in so many parts of the continent. Was there unrest in Burkina Faso? She didn’t know. And what about lions?
Gosh, she was a wimp.
“I’m perfectly content where I am,” he said. “We have plenty of people who need help right here in this country.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. Okay. That was settled. “I’m happy to help people here, too.” Much as she admired his family and others like them she was sure she wouldn’t be able to handle any place with so many challenges.
After lunch Paul returned to church to work on his sermon, while Celeste and Nemo hit the beach. And wouldn’t you know it? There was Henry Gilbert, camped on a blanket, working away on his book.
Nemo was more than happy to run over and say hi, completely ignoring Celeste’s commands to come back.
“Sorry,” she said, hurrying up as Henry moved his laptop out of range of the flying sand. “I tried to call him back.”
“Don’t be,” Henry said, giving Nemo’s furry neck a good rub even as the excited dog tried to trample him.
“I need to take him to obedience school.”
“Nah. A few lessons and you’ll have him whipped into shape.” He pushed on Nemo’s rump and said, “Sit.” The rump went down, and Henry rewarded the dog’s obedience with an ear rub and a “Good boy.”
“That was impressive,” Celeste said, and she sat, too.
“That’s how you do it. Show ’em what you want and reward ’em when they do it. Positive reinforcement. He’ll catch on fast, won’t you, boy?” Henry said, rubbing the dog’s ears again. Nemo leaned over and gave him a doggy kiss. “Man, I miss my dog,” he said.
“You could get another,” Celeste suggested.
“Not sure I’m ready for that yet.”
“Well, then, how about if I share mine? You can help me train him.”
“That’s a deal,” he said. “So did you patch things up with the preacher?”
It was pointless to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. “I did.”
Henry didn’t look at her. Instead, he concentrated on scratching the dog’s chin. “I still can’t picture you with a guy like that.”
“I’m not having any trouble. He’s a good man. With principles. And that’s a refreshing change.”
“Yeah? Been burned, huh?”
“To a crisp.”
“What happened?”
“He cheated on me.” Even though she was over Emerson, the words still tasted bitter. She picked up a pebble and gave it an angry toss.
As if on cue, a text came in, and she knew without looking it was from Emerson. She didn’t bother to take her phone out of her shorts pocket.
“Your fan club?” Henry guessed.
“He’s banned from the clubhouse after what he did.”
“I take it that was the cheater. Wants you back now, huh?”
“The day he gets me back is the day the tide stops coming in.”
“Smart,” Henry said approvingly. “I can’t believe any man would be stupid enough to cheat on you,” he added, keeping his gaze on Nemo, who’d lain down against his leg.
“There are a lot of stupid men out there.”
“Stupid women, too.”
For a moment he seemed so sad Celeste couldn’t help saying, “Any woman who doesn’t appreciate a man who can write doesn’t deserve him.”
Now he did look up at her and smiled. Since he was wearing sunglasses she couldn’t see his eyes but she somehow knew that smile had reached them. “You think so?”
“I do.”
“You flattering me so I’ll endorse your book, Happy Clam Girl?”
“You’re mocking me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Don’t judge. I may be the next Dr. Seuss.”
“You’re the wrong sex,” he said, making her smile. “And much cuter than he ever was.”
Henry was pretty darned cute himself.
But who cared? She wasn’t interested in him. She wasn’t interested in any man but Paul Welch. This time around Celeste was taking the sure bet.
“So any inspiration for your clam yet?” he asked.
She sighed. “I can’t think of anything. You’re right. Clams are boring.”
“Maybe you should try writing about something with a little more energy.”
“Crabs?”
“Uh, no. How about a dog?” he suggested.
“The Happy Dog!”
“Everything doesn’t have to be happy, you know. You could have a lost dog or a lonely dog.”
“Or a best dog. The Best Dog. What do you think of that title, Nemo?”
Nemo wiggled his ears at the sound of his name but other than that had no opinion.
“I could write about a child at an animal shelter, trying to choose a dog.”
Henry shrugged and nodded. Not very enthusiastic.
“Wouldn’t you want to read about a kid picking out a dog?” she asked.
“I’d rather read about a kid being lost in the woods with his—or her—dog and how they make their way back to camp.”
“That could be a sequel,” she said. “But first you have to find the right dog.”
“Not much conflict there,” Henry observed. “It’s not hard to do that.”
“It wasn’t for me, was it, Nemo?” Celeste reached out and petted him, and he gave her hand a doggy kiss.
“Finding the right dog’s a lot easier than trying to find the right person, that’s for sure,” Henry said.
“Hi, Celeste.”
She turned from Henry to see Hyacinth’s friend Bethany strolling past. She wore the kind of smug, gotcha look that movie bad girls wore when they were sure they’d one-upped the heroine.
Great. Just great. At least Celeste had her clothes on.
But by the time this got down the grapevine to Paul, would she have been seen wearing anything at all?
The Summer Retreat Page 16