From This Day

by Nora Roberts

  People began to wander in as she sorted through the collection of old 78s. The hum of conversation behind her was so familiar, it barely tickled her consciousness. Glasses chinked, ice rattled, and an occasional laugh echoed along the walls. With the absentminded skill of an expert, B.J. wound the Victrola into life and set a thick, black record on the turntable. The music which drifted out was scratchy, tinny and charming. Before the record was half over, three couples were on the dance floor. Another Monday night was launched.

  During the next half hour, B.J. played an unbroken stream of nineteen-thirty tunes. Over the years, she had noted that no matter what the mean age of the audience, the response to a trip through the past was positive. Perhaps, she mused, it’s because the simplicity of the music suits the simplicity of the inn. With a shrug, she abandoned her analysis and grinned at a couple fox-trotting over the dance floor to the strains of “Tea For Two.”

  “What the devil is going on in here?”

  B.J. heard the demanding question close to her ear and whirled to find herself face to face with Taylor. “Oh, I see you’re finished with your call. I hope there isn’t any trouble?”

  “Nothing important.” He waited until she had switched records before he asked again, “B.J., I asked you what’s going on in here?”

  “Why, just what it looks like,” she answered vaguely, hearing from the tone of the record that it was time to replace the needle. “Sit down, Taylor, I’ll have Don mix you a drink. You know I’d swear there hasn’t been time for this needle to wear out.” Delving into her spares, B.J. began the task of changing needles.

  “When you’re finished, perhaps you’d take a look at my carburetor.”

  Engrossed in the intricacies of her job, B.J. remained untouched by Taylor’s mockery. “We’ll see,” she murmured, then carefully placed the new needle on the record. “What would you like, Taylor?” As she straightened, she glanced toward the bar.

  “Initially, an explanation.”

  “An explanation?” she repeated, finally giving him her full attention. “An explanation about what?”

  “B.J.” Impatience was beginning to thread through his tone. “Are you being deliberately dense?”

  Liking neither his tone nor his question, B.J. stiffened. “Perhaps if you would be a bit more specific, I would be a bit less dense.”

  “I was under the impression that this lounge possessed a functional P.A. system.”

  “Well, of course it does.” As she became more confused, B.J. pushed away the thought that perhaps she actually was dense. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Why isn’t it being used?” He glanced down at the Victrola. “And why are you using this archaic piece of equipment?”

  “The P.A. system isn’t being used,” she explained in calm, reasonable tones, “because it’s Monday.”

  “I see.” Taylor glanced toward the dance floor where one couple was instructing another on the proper moves of a two step. “That, of course, explains everything.”

  His sarcasm caused indignation to flood through her. Clamping her teeth on a stream of unwise remarks, B.J. began to sift rapidly through records. “On Monday nights, we use the Victrola and play old records. And it is not an archaic piece of equipment,” she added, unable to prevent herself. “It’s an antique, a museum quality antique.”

  “B.J.” Taylor spoke to the top of her head as she bent to change records. “Why?”

  “Why what?” she snapped, furious with his ambiguity.

  “Why do you use the Victrola and play old records on Monday nights?” He spoke very clearly, spacing his words as if speaking to someone whose brain was not fully operative.

  “Because,” B.J. began, her eyes flowing, her fists clenching.

  Taylor held up a hand to halt the ensuing explanation. “Wait.” After the one word command, he crossed the room and spoke to one of the guests. Seething, B.J. watched him use his most charming smile. It faded as he moved back to join her. “You’re being relieved of Victrola duty for a bit. Outside.” With this, he took her arm and pulled her to the side door. The cool night air did nothing to lower B.J.’s temperature. “Now.” Taylor closed the door behind him and leaned back against the side of the building. He made a small gesture with his hand. “Go right ahead.”

  “Oh, you make me so mad I could scream!” With this dire threat, B.J. began pacing up and down the porch. “Why do you have to be so . . . so . . .”

  “Officious?” Taylor offered.

  “Yes!” B.J. agreed, wishing passionately that she had thought of the word herself. “Everything’s moving along just fine, and then you have to come in and look down your superior nose.” For some moments, she paced in silence. The romance of the moonlight filtering through the trees seemed sadly out of place. “People are enjoying themselves in there.” She swung her hand toward the open window. A Cole Porter number drifted back to her. “You don’t have any right to criticize it. Just because we’re not using a live band, or playing top forty numbers, doesn’t mean we’re not entertaining the guests. I really don’t see why you have to . . .” She broke off abruptly as he grabbed her arm.

  “O.K., time’s up.” As he spun her around, the hair fell over B.J.’s face, and she brushed it back impatiently. “Now, suppose we start this from the beginning.”

  “You know,” she said between her teeth, “I really hate it when you’re calm and patient.”

  “Stick around,” he invited. It began to sink into her brain that his voice was dangerously low. “You might see the other end of the scale.” Glaring at him did not seem to improve her situation, but B.J. continued to do so. “If you’ll think back to the beginning of this remarkable conversation, you’ll recall that I asked you a very simple question. And, I believe, a very reasonable one.”

  “And I told you,” she tossed out, then faltered. “At least, I think I did.” Frustrated, she threw both hands up in the air. “How am I supposed to remember what you said and what I said? It took you ten minutes to come to the point in the first place.” She let out a deep breath as she realized she did not yet have control of her temper. “All right, what was your very simple, very reasonable question?”

  “B.J., you would try the patience of a saint.” She heard the amused exasperation in his voice and tried not to be charmed. “I would like to know why I stepped into nineteen-thirty-five when I came into the lounge.”

  “Every Monday night,” she began in crisp, practical tones, “the inn offers this sort of entertainment. The Victrola was brought here more than fifty years ago, and it’s been used every Monday night since. Guests who’ve been here before expect it. Of course,” she went on, too involved in her story to realize she was being drawn closer into Taylor’s arms, “the P.A. system was installed years ago. The other six nights of the week, we switch off between it and a live band, depending on the season. The Monday night gathering is almost as old as the inn itself and an important part of our tradition.”

  The low, bluesy tones of “Embraceable You” were floating through the open window. B.J. was swaying to its rhythm, as yet unaware that Taylor was leading her in a slow dance. “The guests look forward to it. I’ve found since I’ve worked here, that’s true no matter how old or how young the clientele is.” Her voice had lost its crispness. She found her trend of thought slipping away from her as their bodies swayed to the soft music.

  “That was a very reasonable answer.” Taylor drew her closer, and she tilted back her head, unwilling to break eye contact. “I’m beginning to see the advantages of the idea myself.” Their faces were close, so close she could feel the touch of his breath on her lips. “Cold?” he asked, feeling her tremble. Though she shook her head, he gathered her closer until the warmth of his body crept into hers. Their cheeks brushed as they merged into one gently swaying form.

  “I should go back in,” she murmured, making no effort to move away. She closed her eyes and let his arms and the music guide her.

  “Um-hum.”
His mouth was against her ear.

  Small night sounds added to the lull of the music from the lounge; a whisper of leaves, the quiet call of a bird, the flutter of moth wings against window glass. The air was soft and cool on B.J.’s shoulders. It was touched with the light scent of hyacinth. Moonlight sprinkled through the maples, causing the shadows to tremble. She could feel Taylor’s heartbeat, a sure, steady rhythm against her own breast. He trailed his mouth along her temple, brushing it through her hair as his hands roamed along her back.

  B.J. felt her will dissolving as her senses grew more and more acute. She could hear the sound of his breathing over the music, feel the texture of his skin beneath his shirt, taste the male essence of him on her tongue. Her surroundings were fading like an old photograph with only Taylor remaining sharp and clear. Untapped desire swelled inside her. Suddenly, she felt herself being swallowed by emotions she was not prepared for, by needs she could not understand.

  “No, please.” Her bid for freedom was so swift and unexpected that she broke from Taylor’s arms without a struggle. “I don’t want this.” She clung to the porch rail and faced him.

  Closing the distance between them in one easy motion, Taylor circled the back of her neck with his hand. “Yes, you do.” His mouth lowered, claiming hers. B.J. felt the porch tilt under her feet.

  Longing, painfully sweet, spread through her until she felt she would suffocate. His hands were bringing her closer and closer. With some unexplained instinct, she knew if she were wrapped in his arms again, she would never find the strength to resist him.

  “No!” Lifting both hands, she pushed against his chest and freed herself. “I don’t!” she cried in passionate denial. Turning, she streaked down the porch steps. “Don’t tell me what I want,” she flung back at him before she raced around the side of the building.

  She paused before she entered the inn to catch her breath and to allow her pounding heart to slow down. Certainly not the usual Monday evening at Lakeside Inn, she thought, smiling wryly to herself. Unconsciously, she hummed a few bars of “Embraceable You,” but caught herself with a self-reprimanding frown before she entered the kitchen to remind Dot about the bud vases on the breakfast tables.

  Chapter 5

  There are days when nothing goes right. The morning, blue and clear and breezy, looked deceptively, promising. Clad in a simple green shirtdress and low heels, B.J. marched down the stairs running the word businesslike over and over in her mind. Today, she determined, she would be the manager of the inn conducting business with the owner of the inn. There was no moonlight, no music, and she would not forget her responsibilities again. She strolled into the dining room, prepared to greet Taylor casually, then use the need to oversee breakfast preparations as an excuse not to share the morning meal with him. Taylor, however, was already well into a fluffy mound of scrambled eggs and deep into a conversation with Mr. Leander. Taylor gave B.J. an absent wave as she entered, then returned his full attention to his breakfast companion.

  Perversely, B.J. was annoyed that her well-planned excuse was unnecessary. She scowled at the back of Taylor’s head before she flounced into the kitchen. Ten minutes later, she was told in no uncertain terms that she was in the way. Banished to her office, she sulked in private.

  For the next thirty minutes, B.J. occupied herself with busy work, all the while keeping her ears pricked for Taylor’s approach. As the minutes passed, she felt a throbbing tension build at the base of her neck. The stronger the ache became, the deeper became her resentment toward Taylor. She set the reason for her headache and her glum mood at his doorstep, though she could not have answered what he had done to cause either. He was here, she decided, then broke the point of her pencil. That was enough.

  “B.J.!” Eddie swirled into the office as she stood grinding her teeth and sharpening her pencil. “There’s trouble.”

  “You bet there is,” she muttered.

  “It’s the dishwasher.” Eddie lowered his eyes as if announcing a death in the family. “It broke down in the middle of breakfast.”

  B.J. let out her breath in a quick sound of annoyance. “All right, I’ll call Max. With any luck it’ll be going full swing before lunch.”

  Luck, B.J. was to find, was a mirage.

  An hour later, she stood by as Max the repairman did an exploratory on the dishwasher. She found his continual mutters, tongue cluckings and sighs wearing on her nerves. Time was fleeting, and it seemed to her that Max was working at an impossibly slow pace. Impatient, she leaned over his shoulder and stared at tubes and wires. Bracing one hand on Max’s back, she leaned in further and pointed.

  “Couldn’t you just . . .”

  “B.J.” Max sighed and removed another screw. “Go play with the inn and let me do my job.”

  Straightening, B.J. stuck out her tongue at the back of his head, then flushed scarlet as she spotted Taylor standing inside the doorway.

  “Have a problem?” he asked. Though his voice and mouth were sober, his eyes laughed at her. She found his silent mockery infuriating.

  “I can handle it,” she snapped, wishing her cheeks were cool and her position dignified. “I’m sure you must be very busy.” She cursed herself for hinting at his morning involvement. This time he did smile, and she cursed him as well.

  “I’m never too busy for you, B.J.” Taylor crossed the room, then took her hand and raised it to his lips before she realized his intent. Max cleared his throat.

  “Cut that out.” She tore her hand away and whipped it behind her back. “There’s no need to concern yourself with this,” she continued, struggling to assume the businesslike attitude she had vowed to take. “Max is fixing the dishwasher before the lunch rush.”

  “No, I’m not.” Max sat back on his heels and shook his head. In his hand was a small-toothed wheel.

  “What do you mean, no you’re not?” B.J. demanded, forgetting Taylor in her amazement. “You’ve got to. I need . . .”

  “What you need is one of these,” Max interrupted, holding up the wheel.

  “Well, all right.” B.J. plucked the part from his hand and scowled at it. “Put one in. I don’t see how a silly little thing like this could cause all this trouble.”

  “When the silly little thing has a broken tooth, it can cause a lot of trouble,” Max explained patiently, and glanced at Taylor for masculine understanding. “B.J., I don’t carry things like this in stock. You’ll have to get it from Burlington.”

  “Burlington?” Realizing the situation was desperate B.J. used her most pleading look. “Oh, but, Max.”

  Though well past his fiftieth birthday, Max was not immune to huge gray eyes. He shifted from one foot to the other, sighed and took the part from B.J.’s palm. “All right, all right, I’ll drive into Burlington myself. I’ll have the machine fixed before dinner, but lunch is out. I’m not a magician.”

  “Thank you, Max.” Rising on her toes, B.J. pecked his cheek. “What would I do without you?” Mumbling, he packed up his tools and started out of the room. “Bring your wife in for dinner tonight, on the house.” Pleased with her success, B.J. smiled as the door swung shut. When she remembered Taylor, she cleared her throat and turned to him.

  “You should have those eyes registered with the police department,” he advised, tilting his head and studying her. “They’re a lethal weapon.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sniffed with pretended indifference while she wished she could have negotiated with Max in private.

  “Of course you do.” With a laugh, Taylor cupped her chin in his hand. “That look you aimed at him was beautifully timed.”

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” she replied, wishing his mere touch would not start her heart pounding. “I simply arranged things in the best interest of the inn. That’s my job.”

  “So it is,” he agreed, and leaned on the injured dishwasher. “Do you have any suggestions as to what’s to be done until this is fixed?”

  “Yes.” She glance
d at the double stainless steel sink. “Roll up your sleeves.”

  It did not occur to B.J. to be surprised that she and Taylor washed the dozens of breakfast dishes side by side until it was fait accompli. The interlude had been odd, B.J. felt, because of the unusual harmony which existed between them. They had enjoyed a companionable banter, an easy partnership without the tension which habitually entered their encounters. When Elsie returned to begin lunch preparations, they scarcely noticed her.

  “Not one casualty,” Taylor proclaimed as B.J. set the last plate on its shelf.

  “That’s only because I saved two of yours from crashing on the floor.”

  “Slander,” Taylor stated and swung an arm over her shoulder as he led her from the room. “You’d better be nice to me. What’ll you do if Max doesn’t fix the dishwasher before dinner? Think of all those lunch dishes.”

  “I’d rather not. However, I’ve already given that possibility some consideration.” B.J. found the handiest chair in her office and dropped into it. “I know a couple of kids in town that we could recruit in a pinch. But Max won’t let me down.”

  “You have a lot of faith.” Taylor sat behind the desk, then lifted his feet to rest on top of it.

  “You don’t know Max,” B.J. countered. “If he said he’d have it fixed before dinner, he will. Otherwise, he’d have said I’ll try, or maybe I can, or something of that sort. When Max says I will, he does. That,” she added, seeing the opportunity to score a point, “is an advantage of knowing everyone you deal with personally.”

  Taylor inclined his head in acknowledgement as the phone rang on the desk. Signaling for Taylor not to bother, B.J. rose and answered it.