That Summer Place: Island TimeOld ThingsPrivate Paradise

by Susan Wiggs

  For the next two hours, he went through her statements and registers line by line. He discovered that an entry-level college professor made amazingly little money, and if that money was mismanaged the slightest bit, it amounted to next to nothing. He also discovered that she was basically a happy person in spite of all this. That amazed him even more. If his finances looked like hers, he’d be slitting his wrists the long way.

  “What’s this notation here?” he asked, pointing the register toward her.

  “Oh. That’s a loan to my oldest nephew. The little squiggle in the margin means I forgave the loan.”

  “You have a lot of squiggles,” he observed.

  “I have a big family.”

  “But they’re not all your responsibility.”

  She blew out her breath. “We take care of each other.” Pointing at a line in the register, she said, “That was a loan to buy some landscaping equipment. Eddie started his own business last year. When I need help, he’ll be there for me.”

  Mitch wondered what that was like, knowing there was a family out there to catch you when you fell. “Will he be around after this month is up?” he asked pointedly.

  She pursed her lips. “If I need him to be. But I won’t.”

  He waved the balance sheet in front of her. “Nine cents, Rosie.”

  “Nine cents, plus the exorbitant amount of my contract with you.”

  “Is it exorbitant? Miss Lovejoy never told me it was exorbitant.”

  She fished around in the box for a while, then pulled out the document. Mitch scanned the pages, recognizing Miss Lovejoy’s fine hand—and her meddling nature—in the short contract. He wouldn’t have called the settlement exorbitant, but now that he’d had a glimpse into Rosie’s salary history, he could see how she might think so.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “It’s fine. I told Miss Lovejoy to hire the best, no matter what the cost. I want this project to go right.”

  She sent him a melting look. “Oh, Mitch. Thank you.”

  As compliments went, he thought he was being pretty oblique, but she’d picked up on it.

  He flipped through the revised checkbook register. A folded bit of paper drifted out, and he opened it. “You know,” he said, filled with exasperation, “one of the first principles of personal finance is depositing paychecks in a timely manner.”

  She snatched it from him. “My June check! I was looking all over for that.” Her face lit up. “I’m not so broke, after all.”

  He took out a fresh piece of paper. “So here’s what you do.” He spent the next hour outlining a plan for her. It wouldn’t make her rich, but if she stuck to it, she’d get by. She listened with the sincere absorption of a natural student, and her attention gratified him in a way that felt strange…but good.

  “You’re right,” she said at last, looking at the financial plan on paper. “I didn’t want you to be right, but you are.” She shivered, though she was still smiling. “It’s a little scary, knowing I’m going to have to be financially responsible and stay that way.”

  “I can think of worse dilemmas,” Mitch said.

  “Money won’t make me happy,” she said urgently, intensely. “I found that out a long time ago.”

  “Aha,” he said. “So now the truth comes out. Let’s see, you were traumatized at a young age by vast sums of cash. Did a rich person drop you on your head when you were a baby?”

  “Very funny.” Her dark eyes, with fire in their depths, failed to hide the hurt.

  Contrite, Mitch covered her hand with his. It felt odd, all this touching, this human connection. “Sorry. All kidding aside, Rosie, you really have a problem with this. I wonder why. I want to know.”

  She stared down at their linked hands, studying them. “I fall in love too easily. And I fall too hard.”

  Skepticism must have flickered across his face, because she added quickly, “It’s true. Three times in the last six years. Does that make me a slut?”

  “Of course not. You said it was love. But I don’t see how this ties in with your attitude toward finance.”

  “Each time I thought the guy was the man of my dreams. The prince on the white horse. The happily-ever-after.”

  Her words touched him in a soft place he didn’t know was in him. At the same time he felt an insane stab of envy. He knew it was impossible, but he wanted to be her happily-ever-after.

  “And I guess,” he said, “each time it didn’t work out.”

  “That’s right.” She took her hand away from his, rubbing her temples as if a headache had come on. “Each time, it was because money became more important than our relationship. With Rudy, it was a job promotion he couldn’t pass up, and he dumped me because I wouldn’t drop everything and move to Fargo with him. Rafael worked sixteen hours a day, sometimes more, and he refused to slow down even when I begged him. And Ron—God, I loved that man—”

  “Just tell me how it ended.” Mitch wasn’t interested in details about these losers.

  “Um, well, you remember that big bank withdrawal you spotted on the statement from last year?”

  “The one that made the next eight checks bounce? Yeah.”

  “Ron’s parting gift to me.”

  “He cleaned you out?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He must’ve been a real prince.”

  “I’m beginning to think I’m a real chump.” She started rifling through another box. “Anyway, the best times of my life always happen when I’m broke.”

  Like now? he wanted to ask. He really wanted to ask.

  Instead, he said, “I think you’re looking at it all wrong. You claim money can’t buy you happiness. That should also mean money can’t make you sad.”

  “It means I should steer clear of men who are caught up in finance.” She took a CD out of the box. “Okay. My turn to return the favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “Straightening out my finances.” She walked over to the stereo, flipped on the power and fed in the disk.

  “And what are you going to straighten out?” he asked, filled with suspicion.

  “Your priorities.” Rosie rolled up the area rug in the middle of the parlor. She turned to him with a huge smile and held out her hands to him.

  He scowled. “Meaning?”

  At that moment the CD kicked in. Salsa music wailed out.

  “The Macarena!” Rosie yelled over the lead-heavy beat.

  He made a sign against evil. A nervous laugh escaped him. “Oh, no, you don’t. I don’t dance. I never dance.”

  “Coward.” Hips swaying to the relentless tempo, she moved slowly, deliberately, across the room toward him.

  “It’s easy,” she said coaxingly. “Anyone can do it.”

  “Sorry, Professor.” He acted nonchalant even though he was on fire inside. “Just not my cup of tequila.” But he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was mesmerizing, a vision in scarlet, a flame from the heart of a fire—beautiful, hypnotic, shimmering. And, God, burning hot.

  She moved in front of him, nearly touching him. Her warmth became his warmth. He could feel the rhythm; it seemed to emanate from her, not the speakers. Her hips rolled, her breasts shimmered, and her bare feet on the wood floor made him want to howl at the moon.

  “Get up, Mitch,” she said with laughter in her voice.

  He wondered if the double entendre was intended or if his condition was that obvious.

  She captured both his hands in hers. “Hey, Macarena,” she sang with the music. Then she gave a tug. “Come on. I didn’t want to work on my bank account, but I did it to humor you. And guess what? I actually learned something.” She bent forward, her incredible bosom hovering just inches from his face. “So humor me. You just might learn something, too.” She gave one more tug on his arms. Like a snake charmed out of a basket, he stood and moved forward, pulled along by her. And every moment, she was dancing, moving to the belly thud of the beat, shimmying to the sinuous blare of the brass.

 
She led him to the middle of the parlor floor. “Okay. Ready?” She seemed blithely unaware of her effect on him.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said.

  “Top of the beat. Just do exactly what I do.” The rapid-fire vocals filled the house with Spanish. Half closing her eyes, Rosie put one hand, then the other, to her hips.

  Mitch tried to mimic her.

  “Good,” she said, “but don’t just stand there like an outrigger. Feel the beat.” She reached over and turned up the bass. “Feel it?”

  “I guess.”

  “Okay, new move.” Her body swayed. She touched first one shoulder, then the other, hugging herself. The pose deepened her cleavage, and Mitch couldn’t take his eyes off her as he fumbled through the move.

  She showed him the next sequence, and he knew he was in the presence of a master. When it came to the Macarena, this woman was without peer. A wet dream come true. And Mitch was as stiff and awkward as GI Joe.

  “You’re like Al Gore at a head-bangers’ ball. Loosen up!” After she led him through footwork and hand movements he knew he’d never remember, she gave him a smile filled with tolerant sympathy. And good-natured condescension.

  “So how does it feel, Mr. Wizard?” she asked.

  Like I need a cold shower. “How does what feel?”

  “Being pushed out of your comfort zone. Being pushed somewhere you don’t want to go?”

  “I’m just so bad at this,” he said. “And I don’t see the point.”

  “Aha. I rest my case.” She gave him a smile filled with secret knowledge.

  And then he got it. She’d felt exactly this way when he was teaching her about banking.

  “You’re just not feeling the beat,” she said. Then inspiration gleamed in her eyes. “You’re too disconnected, Mitch. Take off your shoes.”

  He knew it was useless to protest, so he slipped off the Gucci loafers and kicked them aside. The floor vibrated under his soles, moving up through him. He felt easier, looser. Maybe there was something to this. He tried the footwork again.

  “You’ve got it!” Rosie exclaimed, her face shining with delight. “I knew you could do it.”

  No wonder you fall in love so easily, Rosie.

  “All right, now the hands.” She called out the movements and demonstrated. “Hips, hips, shoulder, shoulder…”

  He blew it then, just couldn’t get the hand movements to coordinate with the beat. “Rosie—”

  “Don’t give up!” she cried. “You’ve almost got it. Here.” She moved in front of him, her back against his chest. The sensation of her next to him, the lavish perfume of her skin and the smoothness of her shoulders filled him, overpowered him. She took his hands. “Keep your feet moving. See? It’s good. You’re feeling it.”

  “I’m feeling something,” he said through gritted teeth, but she didn’t seem to hear.

  “Ready,” she said, gripping his hands. “We’ll go through the sequence together. Hips, hips…”

  It was so damned easy, with her placing his hands in all the right places. So easy that he put back his head and laughed. So easy that even when she took away her hands and moved away, he was still dancing.

  Jesus. Dancing. Who could’ve known it would feel so damned good?

  “Look at you,” she crowed, dancing along with him. “You’re wonderful! Hey, Macarena!”

  “Hey, Macarena,” he sang, slightly off-key but not caring a bit. Dancing in the middle of the room to the incessant salsa beat shouldn’t give him such an absurd sense of accomplishment, but it did. Damn, it did.

  “You’re hot, jefe,” she said with a merry laugh, and spun around.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for the fancy moves.” He caught her as she spun back to face him. His unexpected touch made her catch her breath, and he liked that. He, who preferred predictability in all things, liked catching her by surprise.

  And God, he liked touching her. She was so damned soft and giving.

  When the shoulders-and-hips sequence started up again, he turned the tables, putting the moves on her this time.

  She watched him incredulously but went along with him, her lush body swaying even as she surrendered the lead to him.

  Surrender. Damn, he wanted her to.

  When he heard the song winding down to its finish, he kept hold of her, backing her up against a bookcase, his hands still obeying the fading lyrics—shoulders, shoulders, hips, hips…

  And by the time the raucous dance ended and the next song had not yet begun, they were still touching, crushed together, breathing hard in the silent space between numbers. Mitch felt a trickle of sweat inch down his back, and he noticed her face was flushed and moist from exertion, her full lips so damned close he could almost taste the berry sweetness of them.

  The next song on the album was a love ballad in Spanish. The yearning notes spun out and played along Mitch’s nerves, tingling and taunting until he leaned closer to her ripe mouth and caught her scent of bubble bath and shampoo. He was close, almost there, almost tasting, and—

  “Hey, Mitch,” she said with a bright laugh. “I think you’ve finally figured it out.”

  Before he could stop her, she ducked under his arm and hurried over to the stereo, quickly turning it off.

  He turned to her, frustrated by her quick nervous rebuff even as he understood why and knew it was the right thing to do.

  He echoed a phrase from the song. “What does that mean?”

  She backed up even farther. “I will worship your body in the fond light of dawn,” she translated. “It’s a big hit in Mexico.”

  His gaze roved over her, over that incredible body that had just been so close to his.

  “I can see why.”

  “Yes. Well, thanks for helping out with my financial records, Mitch. It’s getting late.” She hurriedly popped out the CD and put all her stuff in the boxes.

  He watched her go up the steps, unapologetic as his gaze clung to the hem of her short red dress where it brushed the backs of her thighs.

  “Good night, Rosie,” he said.

  Nine

  Rosie looked out the window the next morning and experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Rain. Long cold sheets of rain.

  She’d been counting on getting away from the house today, far away. From Mitch Rutherford. After last night, she needed space, far from him. Time to think.

  Not that it took a rocket scientist to figure out what was happening. She was falling for him. She, who had declared herself free of men, bachelorette number one, was doing it all over again. Falling for the wrong man.

  She rifled through her small supply of clothes and found an appropriately frumpy set of sweats. Standard-issue gray, with the nauseating purple-and-gold UW husky logo. Perfect for the suddenly nasty weather. She brushed her hair into a ponytail, put on a pair of sneakers and went downstairs, determined to be strong when it came to Mitch Rutherford.

  So what if he knew how to hold her when she cried? So what if he didn’t mind if she laughed at him? So what if he was the most adorably klutzy man she’d ever danced with? So what if the mere thought of his mouth on hers made her IQ drop fifty points?

  She was going to be his associate, not his girlfriend. His employee, not his lover. They both knew that was best.

  In the library she discovered that he’d made two lattes and a fire in the huge central grate.

  All the resolutions she’d made up in her room started to melt like hot fudge. “This is so cozy,” she said, hoping her vaporizing resolution wasn’t obvious. “Perfect for the weather today.”

  “That’s what I thought. So much for snorkeling.” He sat at the table, his horn-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose and the Wall Street Journal spread out in front of him. “Sleep well?” he asked as she slid into the chair across from him.

  “Fine,” she lied. Truthfully she’d lain awake for hours reliving the moment when the love song had started to play. “Hey, isn’t today the day you were supposed to m
eet with the bulkhead contractor?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well?”

  Mitch glanced up. “Island time,” he explained.

  “He’s not coming?”

  “No. He called from Eastsound this morning and said the weather’s too squally to risk coming over.”

  She sipped her latte. It was perfect—the foam consistent, the coffee warm and nutty. “I think you’re getting used to this,” she said.

  “I can’t beat them. I don’t have much choice but to join them.”

  She was almost convinced until he picked up the newspaper and she saw three broken pencils on the table in front of him. “Oh, Mitch. I’m sorry. This must be such a headache for you.”

  “I’ll live, Dr. Galvez.”

  She smiled and helped herself to a banana and yogurt for breakfast. Her misgivings about the marina nudged at her. “I suppose I could go over the surveys one more time.”

  “What else is there to do?” he asked.

  She cradled her chin in her hand and looked at the book-lined walls of the massive library. The bay window with its leaded and beveled fancy panes framed a day that was growing gloomier by the moment. The dock wasn’t even visible; the rain and the fog were that thick. The case clock struck nine, and the fire snapped in the grate.

  “I know what I’d like to do.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, toying with one of the broken pencil pieces.

  “I’d like to explore this old house.”

  “What’s that got to do with the project?”

  “Not a thing, jefe,” she said, miffed. “Forget I mentioned it.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Since the weather is going to keep us in today, you might as well take some time off. Spend it however you like.”

  “Thank you. I think I will,” she said, walking toward the kitchen.

  “So what are you going to explore? It’s been a summer place for years. I doubt you’ll find anything of value.”

  “That depends on how you define valuable.” She took her cup to the sink and threw away the banana peel. “Didn’t I see a flashlight somewhere?”