That Summer Place: Island TimeOld ThingsPrivate Paradise

by Susan Wiggs

  The money, the looks, the aura of success, would all make him wildly attractive to women, but Rosie knew without asking that there was no one special in his life.

  “You’re looking at me like I’m some sort of lab specimen,” he said.

  She laughed. “You caught me. I was just telling myself you probably don’t have a wife or a girlfriend.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “I’m an expert at empirical observations.”

  He took a swig of his beer. “Are you interested in the position?”

  She refused to let her gaze waver. “Are you looking to fill it?” “No.”

  “Then no.”

  He grinned. “Good. Glad we got that settled.”

  She grinned back. “Me, too.”

  It was better, she told herself, to get this sort of thing out in the open. They had a business arrangement, and it wouldn’t do to have all this unspoken tense interest seething around them while they worked. Because the tension was there, she acknowledged. It had been since the moment she’d glanced up from her dead car and seen him coming across the parking lot, looking like an Esquire-magazine layout.

  They would get along fine, she knew, as long as they both stayed in their boxes. He in his self-made millionaire world, and she in her academic-with-an-attitude world. She knew instinctively that he’d better not find out she was in dire straits. Mitch Rutherford was definitely the type you wanted to deal with from a position of strength, not weakness. The moment he found out how needy she was, how desperate, he’d run the other way.

  The moment he found out how utterly lonely she was, he might break her heart.

  And as poor as she was, she certainly couldn’t afford that.

  “So how’d you find out about the job?” he asked, idly watching a rust-colored Japanese tanker nose through the shipping lanes toward Seattle.

  “The Internet. Your assistant posted a notice on the UW bulletin board. The assignment looked intriguing.” A white lie. A routine environmental-impact study was a total bore, consisting of predictable lab work and too much meaningless paperwork. But to an untenured professor who’d just found a pink slip in her mailbox, the position held the allure of a gold doubloon on the bottom of the ocean.

  And since the project involved staying a month at a place called Rainshadow Lodge, doing undemanding work in an idyllic island setting, Rosie knew she’d have the chance to regroup and chart a course for the future. She’d never been much of a planner, but losing the best job she’d ever had had been a blow that left her stunned. Maybe it was a sign from the universe, a sign that said it was time to start acting like a grown-up, time to get her life in order and figure out what to do with the rest of it.

  Seated on the high bridge of the Bayliner and seeing the islands rise like emeralds out of the sea, she vowed to do such a fabulous job on the study that her new employer would beg her to take a permanent position with his company.

  “So you’re familiar with what’s involved in this sort of study, right?” he asked, blithely ignorant of her plan.

  She nodded, taking a packet of gum out of her handbag and offering him a piece. He declined. She folded the stick of Wrigley’s four times and popped it in her mouth. “I did a lot of field studies in graduate school. It’s fun, but I take it seriously. I specialized in marine ornithology.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Birds. Especially the rare ones—cranes and such.” She held out her right arm, turning it so that he could see the jagged bruise-colored scar along her inner elbow.

  “Jesus,” he said, “how’d that happen?”

  “When I was a grad student at UC San Diego, I got into an argument with a shark over a piece of camera equipment.”

  He gave a low whistle. “So who won?”

  She laughed, tossing her head back and letting the wind muss her hair. “I never let the shark win, Mitch. Never.”

  Three

  Bringing the boat alongside the private dock at Rainshadow Lodge, Mitch had to keep reminding himself that Rosie Galvez was an employee, and a temporary one at that. But everything about this well-endowed gum-cracking woman surprised him. Though so far, nothing had surprised him more than her reaction to the summer place.

  She stood on the dock while the dogs raced ahead, looking up at the old Victorian mansion as if it gave her a glimpse of heaven. Her sandals dangled, apparently forgotten, from her fingers, and her pretty bare feet were flush to the sun-warmed wood of the deck. He waited, her suitcase in one hand, and watched her. Something happened to her lush extravagant beauty as she studied the place where she’d spend the next four weeks. A softness came over her, a vulnerability, and that vulnerability did strange and unwelcome things to Mitch.

  He didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to see the need and loneliness and stark unhappy emotions the sight of the house seemed to evoke in her. Didn’t want to wonder where her need came from. And most of all, he didn’t want to be the one to answer that need. It was stupid and just asking for trouble, to get emotionally involved with an employee.

  “It’s perfect,” she declared, her gaze fastened hungrily to the painted gingerbread woodwork that trimmed the wraparound porch. “It’s like a place that time forgot, don’t you think?”

  “I understand that was the case with the plumbing until recently,” he said. “Come on. I’ll show you your room.”

  She walked ahead of him up the long flight of open wooden steps that led from the dock to the front lawn. The flared hem of the red dress flipped enticingly in the breeze. He tried to be good, tried not to stare, but the inner adolescent, the one his mother had once said would be his downfall, made him look.

  He was sweating by the time he got to the top of the steps. And he’d changed his mind about getting involved with an employee. Because, after all, she was perfect for him. She had signed a contract to work with him here for one month and not a day more.

  So why the hell not? he asked himself. It would be just like a one-night stand, only this would be a one-month stand. As long as they both understood this from the start, their month at Rainshadow Lodge might prove to be damned enjoyable. As well as profitable.

  The one drawback was that, if she was anything like a lot of women he’d known, she’d have trouble letting go at the end of the month. Mitch didn’t consider himself worthy of being clung to, but women did, anyway. They clung. They hung on way longer than they should, and then he had to do something that hurt them just to get them to go away.

  He hated hurting people. But he was willing to do it in order to keep his distance. With weary reluctance, he surrendered the brief fantasy of a wild affair with this woman. He had too much work to do.

  “Here, I’ll get the door.” He set down the suitcase. The Chihuahuas kept skittering around the yard, marking territory. So much for croquet, Mitch thought with a rueful smile. He wasn’t a croquet kind of guy, anyway.

  He unlocked the door and held it open while Rosie walked inside. Her sandals hit the vestibule floor with a clunk. “It’s great,” she said, her voice almost reverent. “Oh, Mitch. How did you find this place?”

  “Miss Lovejoy found it. She didn’t tell you about it?”

  “Only that lodgings and meals would be provided. I had no idea this was what she meant by lodgings.”

  “I’ll show you your room,” he said, interested by her reaction. When he had walked into the lodge, he hadn’t experienced any particular emotion other than irritation when he realized there was only one phone jack in the whole house. He liked setting up his computer and fax machine and phone on separate lines, but the old-fashioned lodge wasn’t set up for that.

  They walked up the stairs. He’d made a fairly random selection of a room for her, choosing one on the third story because it had an adjoining bathroom with a big fancy Jacuzzi tub he couldn’t imagine ever using. But when she turned to him and smiled, he was glad he’d picked this one.

  “So I guess this means you like it.”

  “You could
say that.” She went to the window and brushed aside the curtains. The distant Cascades, snowcapped even in summer, rose like white teeth across the Sound. “A beautiful view and all this luxury. Mitch, I couldn’t ask for more.”

  He had to train himself to quit staring at her, but it was hard when she stood there with the sunlight streaming over her, a dazzling smile on her face and a look in her eyes that went straight to his heart.

  “I’ll let you get settled in,” he said uncomfortably. “Just holler if you need anything.”

  “I might holler, anyway,” she said, then laughed that easy uncomplicated laugh.

  And it seemed to Mitch, as he turned away to hide a physical reaction that could drive nails, that fate was laughing at him.

  Four

  Mitch woke up to the racket of salsa music and Jacuzzi jets churning at full speed. Staring at the ceiling, he pictured that long luxuriant form in the oversize tub, and his body reacted with pitiless immediacy. Wondering what further trials the day might bring, he hurried through his shower and dressed quickly, determined to get downstairs before Rosie.

  He wanted to be the one in charge here. It was only right, since he was the employer.

  The house had been remodeled with a gourmet kitchen, which some of the summer residents no doubt valued, but to which Mitch was indifferent. He was indifferent, too, to the imported brass-and-chrome espresso machine. Some people enjoyed fussing for five minutes over a thimbleful of thick bitter coffee, but Mitch settled for instant.

  He wondered what she ate for breakfast. He had all the bachelor staples—Pop-Tarts, bananas, a gallon of milk. If she wanted more than that, she was on her own.

  Mitch thought that sounded good. Where Rosie Galvez was concerned, he had to be ruthless. Had to keep his distance. Had to keep telling himself she had a job to do, a month to do it in, and then they’d never see each other again.

  Of course, there was no law to this effect, but it was the way Mitch wanted it. It was the way he wanted his life. It was the only way he knew how to be.

  The Chihuahuas came skittering down the stairs, lifting their paws delicately and shrinking back when Mitch looked at them. “Weenies,” he muttered under his breath. He picked up the sack of dog food Rosie had brought and poured some into a cereal bowl. The dogs crept forward, sniffed at it suspiciously and sat back on their haunches. “Suit yourself,” Mitch said, turning away to fix his coffee and staring out the window over the sink. He’d heard there were killer whales in the area. “So where are you guys on the food chain, huh?”

  “I heard that.” Rosie appeared just as he was stirring the granules of instant coffee into a cup of hot water. Freshly bathed, her damp hair curling around her smiling face, she looked like something he used to dream about—back when he remembered how to dream.

  “Good morning,” she said. “The dogs are bilingual, so watch what you say about them. Don’t you like dogs?”

  Mitch lifted an eyebrow. “Is that what they are? I was thinking maybe fish bait or shaved hamsters.”

  “Very funny. I’ll bet you don’t even have a dog.”

  “I have a ceramic Dalmatian. It’s an umbrella stand a business acquaintance gave me.”

  “It figures.” She bent and cuddled the yappers against her briefly, then stood. “You’re up early.”

  “It’s a workday. Coffee?” He held out the mug to her.

  She glanced at the jar of instant on the counter, then took the mug and dumped it into the sink. “Please. I have my standards.”

  “Instant is fast,” he said, annoyed.

  She gestured at the espresso machine. “Do you mind if I make a latte?”

  “Go right ahead. But hurry.”

  “You can’t hurry a latte.”

  “Fine, then take your time,” he forced himself to say.

  She grinned at his impatient foot. He hadn’t noticed he’d been tapping it. “I intend to.”

  “We should get started before it gets too late.”

  She found milk and a sack of Starbucks in the refrigerator. “After my coffee, I’m all yours.”

  He wished she hadn’t put it that way. He found everything about her suggestive, although today she’d dressed in denim shorts, a tank top and frayed sneakers. Yet oddly, he found the outfit every bit as provocative as the red sundress.

  “I’ll show you the site—”

  “Proposed site,” she corrected him.

  “Whatever. I’ll show it to you, and then you can tell me what the procedure is.” Mitch hoped she would catch his drift. If she was like other inspectors and officials involved in the building trades, she’d accept a generous check for her troubles and sign off on all the paperwork, declaring the project acceptable. Of course, she didn’t look much like the other inspectors Mitch had worked with, but he had faith in the power of his checkbook.

  Working deftly, she prepared two perfect lattes. Mitch sipped his, then looked up to see her watching him.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Well what?”

  “Admit it’s better than instant.”

  “It’s better than instant.” He glanced at his watch. “But now we’re running late.”

  “Do we have an appointment?” she asked, licking a line of foamed milk from her upper lip.

  “No, but we have a schedule to keep. Are you familiar with schedules, Rosie?”

  She laughed. “What if I said no?”

  “I’d believe you. But I want to make it clear that this isn’t a vacation. It’s work.”

  Her smile faded a shade and Mitch felt unpleasantly guilty. “What I mean,” he said, “is that my investors have certain expectations for this project. The economy of this island is in trouble, and the marina could save it. I can’t afford to get behind.”

  “I understand.” She had a seat at the table. It was in a hexagonal alcove with a window that bowed out over a view of the water. “But one cup of coffee isn’t going to make or break your project.” She took a deep breath. “The key is to make sure your marina isn’t going to ruin what makes this island special in the first place.”

  Reluctantly he took a seat. Since he couldn’t beat her, he might as well join her.

  She smiled over the rim of her mug. He was amazed at the effect of that smile. It made something loosen and uncoil inside him, made him want to sit and stare at her while the clock ticked. “Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I usually skip breakfast. I’ll bet you usually eat it standing up. Or on the run.”

  “You guessed it.”

  “So you must live alone, right?”

  “Yeah. I have a place in the city.”

  “Let me guess again. A high-rise over Elliot Bay.”

  Mitch shook his head in mock dismay. “I’m so predictable.”

  She laughed. “Maybe I’m just smart.”

  “That’s why Miss Lovejoy hired you.”

  She set her mug in the sink and went upstairs, returning a few minutes later with a lab kit and clipboard. “I’m ready.”

  They stepped out onto the porch together. Rosie took a deep breath and felt the sea air tingling in her chest. “It’s wonderful here. It’s so wonderful I can’t stand it.”

  Mitch turned to her, frowning. “What’s wonderful?”

  “This. Everything!” With a sweeping gesture of her arm, she encompassed the water, glittering like diamonds in the morning sun, the backdrop of snowy peaks in the far distance, the rise of green islands out of the placid Sound. “How long have you been here?”

  “Two days.”

  “Two days, and you don’t think it’s wonderful?”

  “I’m here to do a job, Rosie.”

  They walked down a gravel path toward the water, then took a branch to the north and followed the shoreline. Driftwood logs the size of telephone poles littered the beach. Below the logs was a line of storm-smoothed stones that rattled as they walked over them. Cormorants swooped along the cliffs rising above the shoreline. Rosie felt hersel
f getting closer and closer to the essence of the island. Yet it was a mystical essence, made even more enigmatic by the very remoteness of this place. Though people had inhabited Spruce Island since time out of mind, no one had conquered it. Instead, this island conquered you. That was its appeal, and its mystery.

  And its complete and endless enchantment.

  As they continued along the beach, she made an informal tally of the ecosystem, noting evidence of clams, crabs and a stunning variety of seabirds and raptors. Yet her gaze kept wandering to Mitch. There was something remote and unknowable about him, as well. A distance. She wondered if she only imagined a certain quiet melancholy that pervaded his life, or if that was simply her overactive imagination trying to rationalize her attraction to him.

  And Lord, yes, she was attracted. He had dressed down for work today—khaki shorts, a Hilfiger golf shirt and Top-Siders. Yet even so, there was something innately formal about him. Even with her vivid imagination, she couldn’t picture him less than perfectly groomed. Every sandy blond hair was in place, his shave was perfect and his fingernails were neatly trimmed.

  “So what do you do for fun around here?” she asked.

  “Fun?”

  “Yes. As in, having a good time. Doing something for the purpose of enjoyment. Clam digging? Fishing?”

  “Never done it.”

  “Scuba diving? Bicycling? Picnicking?”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t come here for fun, Rosie.”

  “But if you happened to have fun while you were here, would it be the end of the world?”

  “Of course not. I’m not a Nazi.”

  “But you know what they say about all work and no play.”

  “Maybe I like being a dull boy.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh, looking at his broad shoulders and Tom Cruise features. “Nobody ever said you were dull, jefe.”

  They walked along in a silence that was surprisingly companionable. Rosie wanted to fill herself with the matchless beauty of the place, the way the crystalline water lapped the beach, the towering cedars and Douglas firs that isolated them from the rest of the world, giving her the feeling they were the only man and woman alive.