What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One

by Mara Purl

  “How many times do I have to tell you … it’s not about muscles, Calvin.” She was the only woman who’d ever called him by his last name.

  Then that other voice issued from the machine, constrained by the small speaker, but nonetheless menacing. “Ms. Christian, you know who this is.” Her mood changed immediately, though he tried to ignore it at first. He couldn’t remember exactly what else the man had said. Something about the time frame changing. If she wanted the story, she now had only twenty-four hours to get it. She was to go to a house. And then the machine clicked off.

  Joseph tried to recapture their playful moment, but the message had brought Chris to full alert. He felt petulant, deserted. “Do you always get such mysterious messages?” he demanded. Even when she received a business call, jealousy crept into his thoughts.

  “Always,” she teased, and in one fluid motion, slid off him and exited to the bathroom. “Are you sulking?” she called from the shower. “Don’t sulk, Calvin. This is work—with a deadline.”

  He listened as the water ran for a few minutes, then was shut off. “We’re still on for tonight, right?” he answered.

  Her reply was a silky piece of underwear flung into the room. It landed on his head, and he laughed in spite of himself.

  “Count on it,” she said as she bounced past and snatched the underwear from his hand.

  That Monday evening, he’d waited for her to join him for dinner. He’d had James prepare something simple at Calma. She’d said not to wait past eleven p.m.; if things got that late, she’d go straight home and call him the next day.

  She did sometimes forget. She did sometimes get called out of town on a story. She’d been known to reach him from some airport while dashing between planes. But that dinner date had been for two nights ago.

  He’d been disappointed. He’d been patient. Then he’d been miffed. Now, he was getting worried.

  Chapter 17

  Zelda McIntyre counted the afternoon as a victory. If she didn’t yet have a firm business arrangement, what she did have was an invitation to return to the elegant offices of Calvin Oil even better prepared then she had been today. What she also had was the irrefutably demonstrated personal interest of the CEO.

  Glancing around her office, she saw the light blinking on her answering machine. I’ll get that in a minute. Kicking off her high heels and draping her scarf over the back of her desk chair, she walked in her stocking feet to the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator door. What do I want? A wine spritzer? No. Clam juice with a splash of Vodka? Not in the mood. A small split of Champagne? Why not? I know I’m going to succeed with this man. Why not celebrate?

  She reached for a crystal flute, popped the cork and poured the pale-gold liquid into her canted glass, listening to the gentle fizz, closing her eyes as the carbonation tickled her nostrils and lit a delicate fire down her throat. “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “That’ll do very nicely.”

  Walking back to her desk to put down the flute, she caught its edge on the blotter—saving it from tipping the liquid across her papers, she managed instead to send an airborne sluice of champagne onto her chair.

  “Heavens!” she yelped, fearful of damaging the Louis XV armchair she’d bought to coordinate with her desk. A moment later, armed with a soft kitchen towel, she carefully soaked up the spill. No damage. Turns out it was a good decision to have this upholstered in black leather. Elegance and easy clean-up.

  Having tossed the towel into her laundry and refilled the flute, she sank at last into the chair and pressed the Playback button. The only message was from a Cynthia Radcliffe. Never heard of her. And that voice… a bit too eager and vapid to be a professional call. Still, it was Zelda’s policy to return all calls.

  “Yes, this is Zelda McIntyre. You called to invite me to a Museum Benefit—how very nice of you.” Zelda had no idea who this Cynthia person might be. All the more reason to be polite until she did.

  “How very nice of you to call me back.” The voice tried to match her own. “Will you be able to attend?”

  Zelda was losing interest, but decided at least to glance at her book. “When is it exactly?”

  Cynthia seemed to be fumbling with something, and Zelda’s patience was waning. “If you can hang on one moment … I have all the information right here … it’s on December twentieth at 5 p.m. And of course it’s to be held at the Calvin Estate.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Zelda refocused quickly. She had to be certain she’d heard correctly.

  “The Calvin Estate. It’s on San Marcos Road. Are you familiar with it?”

  Only vaguely … but not for long. “Oh, yes, of course, the Calvin Estate. Let me just write this down in my book. You said 5 p.m. And what was the address on San Marcos Road?”

  Cynthia Radcliffe couldn’t help but notice that the woman on the other end of the line suddenly seemed much more interested than she had a moment earlier.

  This might be someone to cultivate, particularly if it means I’ll have another ally at the party. An artists’ representative. It sounded substantial, and the more substantial friends she had, the better. Her problem now was one of minor logistics—namely, balancing newspapers, phone, invitations, and Pink Passion nail polish in the center of her disheveled bed.

  “So, the Calvin Estate.” Zelda continued. “What a lovely setting. You and the Calvins must be great friends.”

  “Oh, we’ve been friends for years!” Zelda might be a friend of the family. Better be more accurate. “Well, one year. Ever since I moved here. We’ve been close since the day we met. You know how it is.” Treat her like a girlfriend. Let her in on a secret. “Perfect chemistry. You must have seen our pictures together at all the big parties this season.”

  “You mean you attend these parties with Mr. Calvin?”

  “Yes, with Mr. Calvin, Jr. With Zackery, that is. We just go everywhere together. We’re practically engaged.” For a moment Cynthia thought she might have overstepped her bounds, but Zelda seemed to take the comment in stride.

  “Well, congratulations. I’m sorry, I must have missed the announcement.”

  “Oh! It hasn’t been announced yet, but I’m sure any day now it will be.” Panic rose in her throat. What if Zelda was Joseph’s confidante? What if she mentions this to Joseph before Zackery has a chance? Zackery would be furious!

  Interrupting her anxiety attack, Zelda remarked, “It’s our little secret then.”

  Too relieved, Cynthia responded, “That’s right! Well, it’s so nice to meet you, over the telephone at least, and to make a new friend!”

  “Yes, isn’t it.”

  “Um, Zelda … I hope you don’t mind my calling you by your first name. You know while I have you on the phone, there is something I would love to ask your help with.” Though Cynthia got no response, she continued. “I read that you’re an artists’ representative, and I desperately need a wonderful gift to present to Zackery at the party. And, I mean, what do you get the man who has everything? And this is a museum benefit, so I really must give a painting or something. Well, so, you know art, don’t you?”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Well, how about finding something for me? Something really impressive—assuming it’s within my budget.”

  “What a fascinating idea, Cynthia.” Zelda’s mind seemed to engage. “I may be able to locate something for you. You wouldn’t by any chance favor some sort of wildlife art, would you?”

  Cynthia reclined further into her pillows and tried to picture what a wildlife would look like. Something woolly and large and masculine, she imagined. She certainly understood something about Zackery’s animal instincts, but she wasn’t sure she wanted any such thing on display. “I’m not sure about that idea, Zelda.”

  “Some sort of outdoor nature scene, then?”

  “Mmm. Yes, that would do. As long as it’s tasteful.”

  “Oh, my yes, I don’t represent anything but the highest quality. And what budget did you have in mind?”
r />   “I could go as high as fifteen-hundred dollars.”

  “Good. Leave everything to me. I’ll find the perfect painting for you. I can make arrangements to have it shipped in time for the event.”

  “Since the party’s in December, I suppose that does give us enough time. Oh, now I’m getting excited.”

  “When I have the details, including the price, you’ll need to send me a check.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “I’ll be in touch soon. Ta-ta.”

  Zelda McIntyre hung up the phone and began to ruminate on the fascinating scenario unfolding in front of her. First, she’d learned Miranda had an unexpected visitor in Milford-Haven—one who interested in her work. Then, upon learning this mysterious stranger was none other than the son of the prominent oil magnate Joseph Calvin, Zelda had made her own overture to the senior Calvin. Now, it seemed, not only was she invited to the Calvin estate for a major soiree; she’d also been tasked with finding a painting for the younger Calvin.

  I must find out from Nicole which painting interested him. At worst, I’ll know his taste. At best, I’ll procure the very painting he wanted.

  Zelda hit the pre-programmed button, hoping to find Nicole at her post. Sure enough, her distinctive French accent greeted her. “Finder’s Gallery. May I ‘elp you?”

  “Nicole, dear, it’s Zelda. I have a question for you.”

  “Hallo, Zelda. Yes?”

  “A couple of days ago, a young man apparently wandered into the gallery and became interested in one of Miranda’s pieces.”

  “Yes, I remember ’im,” Nicole confirmed.

  “And do you recall which painting caught his eye?”

  “Oh, yes, ’e wanted ‘The Cove.’ But of course, I’ad to tell ‘im no, because this piece is on contract until—”

  “—till the end of the year. But, if you recall, the fine print stipulates that the artist’s representative may adjust these terms. I’m going to exercise my prerogative and place a hold on that painting.”

  “I do not think Miranda will be so ‘appy about this.”

  “Oh, but she will.”

  “Well, I must notify—”

  “Not to worry. I’ll take care of notifying Miranda. I’ll speak with you soon. Ta ta.” And before Nicole could mangle another vowel, Zelda hung up.

  Miranda Jones hadn’t been out on a real date in … she couldn’t recall how long. I’m not sure I still have the knack of dressing in anything but jeans!

  Rummaging for the third time through her closet, she found the green dress and yanked it off its hanger. This should work pretty much wherever we go. When she held it up to check herself in the full-length mirror, her jeans showed beneath the hem, and her T-shirt protruded down her arms. Frustrated, she pulled off her clothes and tried again. The dress seemed to work, so she flung it to the bed and walked toward her shower where she waited for the water to heat.

  When she stepped into the steamy enclosure, she let the water stream over her long hair and pummel her shoulder muscles. How long does dinner last, anyway? Two hours at least. Will I have any idea what to say to this guy? She sudsed her hair and squeezed her eyes shut as the hot water rinsed away the shampoo. Well, if it’s a disaster, we can eat fast, and he can just drive me home. I can’t imagine we’ll be far away.

  While her skin was still warm, she’d spread a light film of lotion and a mist of cologne—both scented with her favorite Blue Carnation. By half an hour later she’d reviewed her modest attempt at makeup and was searching for the pale lipstick she preferred.

  She glanced down at her hands. “Ack!” Working quickly with an emery board, she tried to even the closely clipped nails and scrape the paint specks away from her cuticles. Maybe it’s just as well I haven’t yet been digging in the garden to plant my flower bulbs.

  Satisfied she’d done all she could, she stopped for another appraisal, turning in front of the mirror. The ankle-length rayon dress—a birthday gift from her sister—draped nicely, settling on her frame to reveal hip bones and well-toned muscles. Its dark green set off her tourmaline-colored eyes, accented now with the barest hint of eye-shadow. She’d swept her hair to one side and captured it in a filigree silver barrette so it fell over one shoulder. She reached for the matching Celtic knot earrings and put the hooks through her earlobes, then watched as light played on the shining metal. More effort at dressing than I’ve made in months. Kind of a bother … but kind of fun!

  She knew that upstairs in the hall closet she’d find her Welsh woolen sweater—forest-hued with complex twists of cabling, it was pinched at the waist and decorated with pewter buttons. Perfect with the dress and the earrings.

  Sliding her feet into green-suede flats, she reached high into her closet for the clear plastic storage box to find the purse she was looking for—a flat suede envelope that coordinated with the shoes. Checking to see it contained the basic necessities, she tossed in the lipstick and a comb as she climbed the stairs to the foyer, then went to her studio to retrieve one of her plain notebooks. Thin and cardboard-bound, these were the ultra-portable versions of her favorite brand—HandBook, they were called—the notebooks she filled with sketches, seldom going anywhere without one.

  Glancing out the long bank of windows, she paused a moment to enjoy the last blood-red bands of sunset, which seemed to cling to the sky like fresh gashes of paint stuck to a raw canvas.

  How would I paint that? The colors are primal today. Golden amber … red ochre … I’d spackle the paint on with a knife, not mix it first on the palette. But I could never paint fast enough to keep up with the changes shifting through the clouds as the sun sinks. I’d have to photograph it first.

  She watched another moment, absorbed in a color reverie. Some days the sunset fades. Other days, the sky seems to grow more vivid. Like relationships, I suppose. Some just fade away. Some grow more intense.

  The possibility that a connection with Zack could intensify sent a thrill down her long legs through to the end of her toes. But such intensity, she worried, could burn out just as quickly as the rapidly sinking sun.

  Chapter 18

  Zack Calvin stood close enough to Miranda to inhale the scent of her perfume—something floral and spicy. He put his hand in the small of her back to guide her to their table. Already the Lighthouse Tavern was humming with activity, half the tables filled and a short line at the maftre d’s podium. As he walked them to their corner, Zack glanced around the room with its flickering candles and smiling faces. Is there anyone here I know? Inexplicably, the thought gave him a twinge of nerves.

  “Your waiter will be right with you,” the maître d’said as he glided Miranda’s chair into place. Aromas of sauces and seasonings wafted past their table as servers delivered fragrant, steaming dishes.

  Zack helped Miranda off with her sweater, before she settled in her chair. En route to the restaurant, she’d reclined in the bucket seat of his car as though it’d been sculpted for her, but for some reason, she’d seemed uncomfortable. I’m a little nervous. Maybe she is too.

  The dress she wore was just right—sleek and elegant without being formal. She’d look great in emeralds, Zack thought, if she ever wears serious jewelry. She smiled at him and looked down shyly, fidgeted with something in her lap, then looked out the window at the view.

  Following her gaze, he noticed how different the Central Coast view appeared in comparison with Santa Barbara. The lights were few—just enough to mark the coastline, unrelieved by offshore rigs or tankers. The beacon’s rhythmic flash from the real lighthouse darted across gleaming dark water. It seemed a cozy and deliciously remote setting.

  Zack’s musings were interrupted by a visit to their table. “Well, you didn’t tell me your date was a heart-stopper.” Michael Owen seemed perfectly in his element, playing the gracious host. “I see now why you gave me the third degree about tonight’s menu.”

  Zack had removed his napkin from his lap and begun to stand. But before he could push his chair back,
Michael placed a hand on his shoulder. “No, no please don’t get up. Just introduce me to your beautiful friend.”

  Miranda blushed, and her eyes darted to Zack. She’s obviously chafing under all this attention. Her eyes pleaded with him to make it all go away. Despite Michael’s invitation to remain seated, Zack stood, and kept the introduction simple. “Michael Owen, chef, Miranda Jones, artist.”

  The chef bent over Miranda’s hand as he kissed it. As soon as he released her, she withdrew her hand. Zack said, “Well, we’re looking forward to the meal, Michael.”

  Despite the slight edge in Zack’s voice, Michael didn’t pick up the signal. The guy must be transfixed. But she looks like she’s about to flee. “Uh, thanks for stopping by the table.”

  As though a hypnotist had snapped his fingers, the spell that’d fallen over Michael was broken. His gaze came up to meet Zack’s with a nod of understanding. “Hope you have a wonderful evening.” He moved onto the next table, returning to his role as gregarious host.

  Zack stood for a moment longer, looking down at Miranda who’d resumed staring out the window. She’s a puzzle, this woman. Sure of herself, yet suddenly shy—painfully so. He reseated himself, pulled his chair in and leaned across the table. “Are you all right?”

  His remark seemed to startle her. “Oh. Sorry. Yes. Of course. Fine.” She attempted a smile.

  Zack searched for a way to ask, without asking, what might be behind so much discomfort. “I was hoping you’d like this restaurant. We can go somewhere else, if you’d prefer.”

  “Oh, no! Not at all. I’ve never eaten here. Never been here at night. The lights … and the beacon … they’re lovely.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “Surprised?”

  “That you’ve never been here.”

  “I didn’t say that.” She fidgeted in her chair, turning again toward the window.

  “Well, Michael had ever met you—”

  She turned to face him. “Michael and I have met. It’s a small town, you know.”