by Nancy Thayer
“That’s stretching the point,” Ben began, then stopped. “You know who David Bohm is?”
“If you study art, you study color, which means you study light, which means you learn about physics. Not to mention perspective, space, movement, time.”
Ben stared at her. “You’re really an interesting person.”
His scrutiny unnerved her. She responded immediately, unthinking, with her usual protective irony: “I know. I’m not just the fluffy little sex object I seem.”
Ben stared at her for a long, silent moment. “I wouldn’t call you fluffy.” He angled his body toward hers. “Could you take off your sunglasses?” he asked. “Because I’d like to kiss you.”
Natalie took off her sunglasses and lifted her face toward Ben’s. He kissed her, his lips warm and tasting slightly of sunblock. She scooted closer to him, her legs squeaking unromantically against the fiberglass hull. Ben put his hand on her face. The kiss deepened. Natalie wanted to press against him. She put her hand on his chest. His naked skin was hot. Beneath them, the boat rocked and tipped.
Ben pulled away. “Okay, now is the time when I need to jump in the lake.”
She blinked, confused.
He grinned. “Like a cold shower?” He went into the lake, feet-first.
Natalie didn’t want to lose the sensation of the kiss. It had been like one of those expensive chocolates, delicious on the outside, hiding in its depths a hint of champagne or Grand Marnier. She wanted to keep kissing.
“Come in the water,” Ben coaxed.
She squirmed. “There are green things in there.”
“Weeds. They won’t get you. They’re just near the edge.” Ben swam to the stern. “Jump over here.”
She jumped, embarrassed by her awkward belly flop. The water was exquisitely cool after the heat of the sun.
“Aaah,” she breathed. Having Ben near her filled her again with a playfulness, a childishness she had not experienced for a very long time. She dove under the surface with her eyes open. She saw weeds swaying near the bank and the tree trunk that seemed, beneath the water, to waver. Surfacing, she swam toward one of the willow branches, reached up with both hands and grabbed it, hanging from it slightly, water dripping off her.
Ben swam toward her, faced her, put his hands on the branch on either side of hers, and let his body lightly touch hers all up and down. Their legs touched and twined beneath the water, but he held his chest and head back, looking at her, watching the effect his touch was having. She could feel his erection through their bathing suits.
“Ben,” she whispered. He kissed her again.
This time the kiss lasted so long Natalie’s arms dropped of their own accord to wrap around Ben. She ran her hands over the long muscles of his back, through his wet hair, over his jawline. Ben let go of the tree branch and clasped her against him. They both sank under the water, still kissing. Ben kicked his legs. One of them was between Natalie’s legs. She thought she was going to faint from desire. Their heads broke the surface of the water, and they both gasped for air and, of necessity, let go of each other to tread water with their arms.
“I think I’d better go for a swim,” Ben said, and struck out, away from Natalie. He dove beneath the willow branch and disappeared out into the wide lake.
Natalie grabbed the branch again and hung there, eyes closed, dazzled.
After a while, Ben reappeared. “It’s getting late. We’d better go back.”
“I have no idea what time it is,” she confessed with a smile.
“Well, physics girl, if you look at the way the sun has moved, and notice how the shadows have changed …” Seeing her face, he laughed and held one arm up, displaying his waterproof stainless steel Seiko. “A watch is good, too.”
She kicked out, splashing his face. He caught her ankle and yanked her away from the branch and next to him. They both sank. Natalie got a nose full of water and started coughing. Immediately, Ben had her by the waist, lifting her above the surface. He swam her to the boat and helped her get aboard, then pulled himself up.
She sat on the hull, gasping.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yes,” Ben said. “You are fine.”
He undid the line, shoved the boat hard away from the bank. They both ducked as he steered them through the narrow opening between the willow branches and the bank. He raised the sail and headed toward the end of the lake where their houses were. Natalie put on her sunglasses and lounged in the boat, feeling just like Cleopatra triumphantly returning home on her barge.
12
Bad Bella.
She’d been emailing Slade. About Penny’s ornate jewelry. About her ideas for redecorating the shop. About furniture.
Slade emailed her back, mostly links to websites of fabulous shops, homes, churches, restaurants, all over the country, all over the world. Her mind swarmed with ideas.
You need to change the name of the shop, Slade emailed her. “Barnaby’s Barn” is not right.
I agree, she emailed back. Ideas?
Something short. Maybe just one word.
“Barnaby’s?”
No. Something too Mother Goose about that.
Oh, thanks so much.
Also, it’s got the word “barn” in it. How about “Bella’s”?
Bella sat staring at his last email with her heart thumping away like a brass band. Bella’s! She didn’t know how to respond.
Slade sent another email: Bella’s: Art, Antiques, Jewelry.
After a moment, Bella got her breath back and emailed Slade. Yes. I like that.
Another email:
I have to go to the Berkshires and southern Vermont to check out some antiques for our store. I think you should come, too. I’ve thought about it, and you can’t keep a shop running on the stuff your parents have in their storage unit. You’ll need to be able to find other pieces. I’ll show you how it’s done. I’ll pick you up early Thursday morning, have you back Thursday night.
Bella hesitated. This wasn’t a date. It shouldn’t make Aaron jealous. She remembered with guilty relief that Aaron was driving down to the Cape on Thursday to see his family for a long weekend. He wanted Bella to come with him, but she’d declined, claiming she needed to stay in the shop. And while this wouldn’t be staying in the shop, it would be work.
I’ll be ready, she emailed Slade.
Thursday morning, in the privacy of her bedroom, Bella tried on just about everything she owned to find the right outfit for the antiques jaunt with Slade. Should she try to look impoverished so the owners would take pity on her and she could get the bid down on a piece of furniture? But she wanted, as much as she refused to let herself dwell on it, to look really good in front of Slade. Also, to look professional. Also, to look sexy. Stop. How did that thought get in there? She didn’t want to look trashy, or easy, and she had to remember this was work, so she shouldn’t look sexy. She needed to look casually intelligent. In a summery way.
She wore a severely cut, sleeveless brown linen sheath and high brown heels that made her look taller, therefore more grown-up, and also, just as a side effect, sexier. She told her parents what she was doing and that she’d be back late. She wasn’t keeping this a secret from Aaron—she’d tell him about it tonight, when he called from the Cape. He was driving there now.
Slade arrived in a big white Chevy Suburban that said “David Ralston Antiques” in gold print on the side. Bella waved at her mother, grabbed her enormous purse, and clicked down the steps to the driveway. Slade hadn’t gotten out to knock on the door; he’d only tapped the horn. Businesslike.
“How many cars do you own?” Bella asked as she climbed with as much grace as possible into the passenger seat.
“This van belongs to my boss,” Slade explained. He wore a white button-down cotton shirt, khakis, and loafers without socks. Aware of her curiosity, he said, “Work clothes. Disguise.”
“So the real Slade Reynolds wears all black?” Bella inquired.
“Maybe. Maybe I’m a man of many façades.”
“But are you all façade?” she asked flippantly. Her hand flew to her mouth. Slade’s presence made her act so strange! She hoped she hadn’t insulted him.
Slade threw back his head and laughed. “Stick around and find out.” He put the key in the ignition and started the massive engine. Off they went.
She’d been nervous about being alone in the car with this man for the roughly two hours it would take to drive through the mountainous countryside. Of course they could discuss antiques. She’d been researching them online while she sat undisturbed by customers in Barnaby’s Barn.
Slade hit the button on the CD player. “Radiohead?”
“Love them,” she answered, relieved when the music filled the air.
Slade drove north from Northampton, zooming up I-91, taking an exit to a smaller road, turning off that to an even narrower road winding through farmland. Trees flickered past; green leaves fluttered and parted to expose a stream flashing with water racing over rocks. Hills rose and fell as they sped by rocks embossed with moss, ivy, and wildflowers like badges in a garden show.
After almost an hour, Slade turned down a dirt lane fenced in wire. He stopped in front of an old house smaller and less freshly painted than the barn next to it.
Slade slipped out of the driver’s seat, stretched, tucked his shirt in. Bella stepped out, too, glad to move. She followed him up to the front door, which was open. An old dog hurried to the screen door, barking and wagging his tail.
“Spot, old fella, how are you?” Slade asked.
The dog wiggled all over at the sound of Slade’s voice.
“Is that who I think it is?” An old man appeared in the gloom of the hall. “Slade, as I live and breathe. You son of a gun, where have you been?” Dressed in overalls and a torn light flannel shirt, the old man was bald, wrinkled, and stooped, but his brown eyes were bright. “And who is this you’ve got with you, you lucky guy?”
“Mr. Wheeler, this is Bella Barnaby. She’s learning the antiques business.”
“She is, is she? Well, she’s got a good teacher. Come in, come in.” With a liver-spotted, veined old hand, Mr. Wheeler reached up to unlatch the screen door.
Bella followed Slade into the dusty hallway.
“Business first, then cider?” Mr. Wheeler asked.
“If you don’t mind. You know I hate being kept in suspense.”
Mr. Wheeler opened a door to the front room. He went in. Slade went in. Bella froze in the doorway, stunned.
The room was chockablock with furniture in no particular order. Desks, armoires, chaises, headboards, chairs, tables, secretaries, in all styles and woods. In some cases, towels were laid over tables or chest tops so that smaller pieces, trunks, and benches, and cabinets, could be stacked on top.
“Mr. Wheeler is not a dealer,” Slade told Bella.
The old man laughed, “Hee-hee-hee. That rhymes. Plus, it’s not the God’s pure and honest truth. I can deal all right when I want to.”
“I mean he doesn’t own an antiques shop,” Slade continued.
“Couldn’t if I wanted to! I’m still running the farm my parents and my grandparents ran before me.” The old man waved at Bella. “Come on in, darlin’. Look around.”
Bella stepped inside. She squeezed herself down a crooked aisle between a dry sink and a glass-front bookcase.
“Mr. Wheeler is my unofficial assistant.” Slade’s voice came from the other side of the room. “He knows everyone in the area. If someone moves out—”
“He means if someone kicks the bucket,” Mr. Wheeler corrected, and did his wheezing “hee-hee-hee” laugh again.
“—Mr. Wheeler knows what kind of furniture they have, who the relatives are, and drops by to offer a fair price to help clean out the house.”
“These young people, you know,” Mr. Wheeler said, shaking his head. “They move clear across the country. Seattle. Phoenix, for Christ’s sake. No interest in their own home, in the farm, in the furniture. Just want the money.”
“I come out about four times a year to check on Mr. Wheeler’s discoveries,” Slade said. “I pay him what he’s paid the original owner, plus a finder’s fee.”
“Adds to my Social Security. The farm don’t make a dime. I need the money; plus, I will admit I am a nosy old bugger.”
“I like this.” Bella paused in front of a slant-top mahogany desk. “I really like this.” She ran her hand over the wood. Silk.
Slade slid sideways down the narrow aisle. Standing next to Bella, he surveyed the desk, his arm brushing hers as he bent. “Yeah. That’s nice.”
“Slade,” Bella whispered, fighting to keep her voice steady, “I’ve been doing some research. I’m sure this piece is English. Georgian, I’d say.”
Slade squatted down, pulled out a drawer, looked at the pulls. “You have done your homework. Mr. Wheeler, how much for this desk over here?”
Another “Hee-hee-hee” came from across the room, behind rows of furniture. Then, “Five hundred.”
Slade snorted. “You are a wheeler-dealer.”
“I ain’t worked with you for three years without learning something.”
“I’ll take it,” Bella called.
Slade gazed at Bella with a light of admiration dawning in his eyes.
“And what about you?” the old man yelled from the other side of the room. “You find anything you like?”
Slade was pressed almost against her. “Yes. I have.”
Bella wanted to kiss Slade. She wanted to lick his neck. Among all this antique furniture, she felt caught in a dream: She was the maid, he was the master; she was the peasant selling flowers, he was the soldier. He was the pirate. She was his plunder.
But, Bella thought triumphantly, her hand on the desk, she was the one who had found the treasure.
She pulled away. Her heart was beating so fast she was afraid it showed beneath the light linen of her dress. She stepped away from Slade, squeezing between an Early American pie cupboard and a high-backed bench, aware of Slade’s eyes on her body as she twisted and slid. Her skin felt so hot she was surprised she didn’t ignite the furniture. Her senses screamed at her to go back to Slade, but Natalie had told her that Slade was a flirt, a scoundrel, a user, a hound dog. Bella needed to wear Natalie’s warning words like a shield of armor.
The rest of their time in Mr. Wheeler’s amazing room, Bella spent in rows as far away from Slade as she could get. When she’d chosen three pieces, and Slade had chosen four, they were invited back to Mr. Wheeler’s kitchen for cider and cookies while they concluded their business.
Mr. Wheeler’s kitchen was tidy and immaculate. His cider was homemade and sweet, taken from the freezer that morning in honor of Slade’s arrival. They sat at the table—a scarred but steady walnut drop-leaf—and talked. Slade opened his briefcase. He lifted out a pastry box of fresh cookies, sweet rolls, and doughnuts from Boston.
“You are a fine fellow.” Mr. Wheeler laughed, clapping Slade on the shoulder. He explained to Bella, “My wife died two years ago. I can’t bake and I can’t tolerate the sight of the poor old widows who used to drive all this way to bring me a casserole or cake, so I wasn’t as appreciative as I should have been. But this guy knows what I like, and he doesn’t want to marry me and iron my tea towels. Hee-hee-hee.”
“Do you have other dealers who come to check out your finds?” Bella asked.
“I do. A few. No one as nice as Slade. Usually in the autumn, when they can combine it with some leaf peeping. Mostly people who want antiques don’t want to spend so much time driving this far out into the boondocks. If it ain’t down in Sheffield, they can’t be bothered.”
After they enjoyed some pastries, they wrote out checks and proof of ownership documents, and then Slade and Mr. Wheeler carried the furniture out to the van. At first Bella worried that the furniture was too heavy for such an old man to be lifting, but Slade shot her a glance when she started to object, a
nd as she watched, she understood that Mr. Wheeler might be old, but he was wiry and plenty strong.
When they said good-bye, Mr. Wheeler shook Slade’s hand and patted his shoulder with real affection. To Bella he said, “Now you treat this young man right.”
Her jaw dropped. Are you nuts? she almost cried. Aware of Slade’s mocking grin, she replied sweetly, “It was a real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Wheeler. I hope I see you again.”
Driving away, Slade said, “I should have told you about him. He is one foxy old devil. For one thing, he’s not as old as he looks. I phoned to tell him we were coming, so he went into his local-yokel act. He’s not stupid. He is lonely. And sometimes the furniture he finds is amazing. He’s got a real eye, and the farmers for miles around welcome him into their homes when they wouldn’t let us in.”
“I can’t believe what we got,” Bella said. The furniture was wrapped in quilted pads and secured by bungee cords in the back of the van. She wanted to crawl back, peel off a quilt, and gaze at her purchases.
“You did well, Bella. You found some prizes. This was probably the best part of the day. Mr. Wheeler is one of a kind, I’m afraid. This is prime antiquing country. Sheffield, down in Massachusetts, is basically an antiques town. First-rate stuff in pricey shops. Near Williamstown, Bennington, both college towns, you’ve got some great shops, too. Between here and Albany, you’ve got, basically, mountains. Snow in the winter, mud in the spring. Still, most old farmhouses like Mr. Wheeler’s have been tapped. Antiques dealers have checked out attics and barns. Or they attend auctions.”
“How do you find something for your shop, then?” Bella asked.
“Just this way. Searching. Driving far out on no-name roads. Buying, like we’re going to buy from a few dealers. We won’t make as much profit as we will from Mr. Wheeler’s pieces. But still. The thing is, Bella, lots of people want what they want now. They don’t want to drive all the way from Boston or New York or the Vineyard to find their Chippendale side table. Basically, they’ll pay a whole lot more for something if they can just walk into our store in Boston and point.”