A Night to Remember

by Adrienne Basso

  Eleanor’s spirited rendition of this comical tale brought that memory to life. And other memories, too, of his mother sharing books with him and those rare occasions when his father would read him a story before bed. Impulsively Joshua wondered what had happened to the substantial book collection of his childhood favorites.

  “I’m glad that you enjoyed the book,” Eleanor said stiffly. She pressed a hand to her hair, nervously smoothing back a stray curl. “Some ... sometimes these stories are better received when read aloud.”

  “Apparently.” He grinned mischievously.

  She cast her eyes away from his and Joshua felt a stab of regret. Obviously she was embarrassed by her spirited performance, but he had thought it was immensely entertaining. He found himself remembering how pretty she had looked while she was reading, with her head tilted to one side and a smile on her face and in her voice. For a few moments she was quite irresistibly attractive.

  “Perhaps we should look at another book,” Eleanor suggested.

  “Sure.” Joshua quickly flipped through the volume she handed him. It seemed similar to the others, with bright colorful drawings of various friendly-looking, cuddly animals. The pictures were charming to view and cleverly humorous in a childlike way. Yet he still failed to see what was so incredibly unique about them.

  He was about to say just that, but one look at Eleanor’s expectant face changed his mind. Apparently there was something special about this story and he had about three minutes to figure it out. Feeling like he was cramming for a final exam, Joshua gave it another try.

  “I can see that this book is meant to be a bedtime story,” Joshua began slowly. “And I also noticed there are more pictures in this one and not nearly as many words.”

  Eleanor nodded approvingly. “Exactly. Spare in text but long on action, much of it related through these cleverly expressive pictures. In essence, the very definition of a picture book. To write and illustrate a story which cannot be understood by reading the text alone.”

  “So that’s the big challenge with this type of book?”

  “Yes. And believe me, it isn’t easy to achieve this kind of balance.” Eleanor leaned closer. “Try to imagine telling the story to someone over the phone. It doesn’t work, because they can’t see the pictures.”

  Taking that into account, Joshua reread the three stories. He saw now that the slapstick wit of the illustration moved beyond the story to enrich it. His appreciation for Rosemary Phillips’s talent went up a full ten degrees.

  Still, he wondered privately about his father’s choice of wife. Rosemary seemed far more creative and cerebral than any of the women his father had dated after Joshua’s mother died. Joshua hadn’t really expected his father to remarry, but if that happened he assumed his stepmother would be more of a society type.

  The kind of woman who pestered the interior decorator about paint colors and material swatches, worried about her charitable fund raisers and doing well in the country club golf tournament. Certainly not a woman famous in her own right, successful in a highly competitive, creative field.

  Joshua accepted another pile of books from Eleanor. He read them carefully and, as the plane flew steadily through the bright afternoon sky, they discussed the originality of Rosemary’s artwork and her gift for fitting the artwork to develop the story.

  “You know a lot about this business,” Joshua concluded. “Have you ever considered writing your own children’s book?”

  “Well, I did have an idea for a picture book that I thought would be great,” Eleanor admitted, with a telltale blush of color in her cheeks. “I worked on it for nearly a year, even had a friend who is a graphic artist do a few illustrations for me. When I thought it was perfect, I sent it off to several different publishers.”

  “And . . .” Joshua prompted, fascinated by the risk she had taken.

  “And . . .” Eleanor replied, elongating every sound in the three-letter word. “As I said before, writing a good picture book isn’t nearly as easy as it seems. My story was rejected by every publisher who saw it. And rightfully so.” Eleanor gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I was initially crushed, so I put the manuscript away. Then I read it six months later and had no difficulty pinpointing the major flaw in my work. Bottom line, the book had everything—except a plot.”

  Joshua’s eyes met hers. She was laughing. He told himself there was nothing inherently funny about failure or rejection, yet Eleanor chose to remember her foray into the world of publishing with humor instead of bitterness. Admirable.

  As he helped her put the books away Joshua realized that some of the apprehension he felt over meeting his father’s new wife had eased. He wouldn’t be a complete outsider. At least now he could converse intelligently about Rosemary’s work. He felt slightly calmer, more in control, dreading a bit less the events of the upcoming weekend.

  He smiled at his teacher. She really did understand this stuff and was sensitive and knowledgeable enough to teach others. Despite the odd moments of inappropriate and completely unexpected sexual jolts he felt for Eleanor, Joshua decided taking her along on this trip had been the best decision he’d made all week.

  “Thank you, Eleanor,” he said sincerely.

  Impulsively Joshua reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. It was a courtly gesture, an old-world, time-honored custom that somehow seemed appropriate for this old-fashioned woman. He placed a single, gentle kiss on the top of her delicate knuckle.

  And got the surprise of his life.

  Who would have ever imagined that such a simple act could turn into a truly intimate moment? Her skin felt smooth and unbelievably soft beneath his sensual caress. As his lips brushed against its silkiness, he detected a faint scent of lemons.

  It was more enticing than any exotic perfume he had ever inhaled. His body tightened, his blood pressure climbed.

  He heard her breath catch, felt her skin heat beneath his possessive grip. Leisurely he stroked the valley of her palm with his thumb. The pulse at her wrist jumped and Joshua smiled faintly. Amazingly this casual contact was exciting him more than any kiss he could remember. Feeling bewildered and restless, Joshua lifted his head and stared at her.

  Eleanor looked as startled as he felt. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, and for a moment she seemed frozen in place. Suddenly the plane dipped and Joshua wasn’t sure if the sharp pang in his stomach was due to the sudden loss of altitude or the contact with Eleanor’s soft, warm flesh.

  The plunge effectively broke the mood. Eleanor pulled her hand out of his and turned away, hunching her shoulders and wrapping her arm around her waist.

  The red signal light near his seat began blinking. Joshua answered the call from the pilot automatically and reality returned in full force.

  “We should be landing momentarily,” Joshua stated, in a voice that came out gruff and deep and husky. “I made arrangements for a car to be left at the airstrip so we can drive directly to the house.”

  “Okay.”

  Her voice was breathy, but steady. A difficult feat considering how rattled she had been by his actions. That little episode seemed to affect her almost as much as him. With effort Joshua managed to avoid looking at Eleanor as the plane continued its descent.

  Not that scrutinizing her would provide any of the answers he craved. But since she was the cause of his discomfort, she was the logical place to start looking for explanations.

  He busied himself by putting away his briefcase and computer and fastening his seat belt in preparation for landing. Yet all the while one thought kept nagging at his brain.

  If kissing Eleanor’s hand got him so worked up, how the hell would he feel if he kissed her on the lips?

  What in the world had happened on that plane?

  While Joshua drove the car that was waiting for them at the airfield, Eleanor sat primly in the passenger seat, knees together, hands folded in her lap, and tried to figure it out. It was impossible.

  One minute they had been discussing pi
cture books and Rosemary Phillips and Caldecott awards and the next Joshua had been kissing her hand. It was without question the most romantic, and oddly erotic thing that had ever happened to her. Her toes curled inside her shoes at the memory.

  It must be all the leather, Eleanor decided with a grim appraisal of the car interior. That rich, subtle odor was turning her brain cells to mush. First the Bentley, then the plane, now the inside of a Porsche. A Porsche! When Joshua had mentioned that a car would be waiting for them she assumed it would be a rental car. A boxy sedan, solid, safe, dependable.

  Instead there had been a black Porsche. Sleek, sexy and fast.

  Joshua drove it commandingly and way too fast. But it took the turns in the road smoothly and the straight stretches like a bullet. Eleanor had always appreciated the thrill of speed, but mixing it with nerves, silent tension and Joshua Barton was almost too much sensation.

  She glanced at him. He was focused on the road, so she studied his profile. Straight nose, square jaw, sensual mouth, strong chin. His pure male beauty nearly took her breath away.

  This time he must have noticed her scrutiny. He turned his head, flashed her a quick smile, then returned his attention to the road. Eleanor’s pulse quickened. She struggled to regard him in a rational, cautious manner, but it was difficult.

  Ever since he had taken her hand and kissed it, all she could think about was kissing his lips. Being held tightly in his arms, bodies pressing, tongues caressing while the world exploded into passion.

  Eleanor sucked in a breath. Was the hot sun getting to her already? Frying her common sense and heating up her vivid fantasy life? Not that it needed much heating. When it came to Joshua, her romantic, sensual, and sexual flights of imagination quickly took on a life of their own.

  Eleanor took a mental breath and crossed her ankles. Time to regroup and refocus. She turned her attention to the passing scenery, admiring the bright blue sky, brilliant sunshine, and beautiful green slopes rolling out toward the horizon. She had never been in this part of the country and she found it very pretty.

  Joshua made no attempts at conversation. The silent tension built slowly, but Eleanor decided she preferred it to stilted conversation. Besides, by keeping her mouth shut she was able to avoid saying something totally inappropriate. Like, what kind of underwear do you wear, boxers or briefs? And would you be so kind as to show me?

  The road narrowed but Joshua didn’t adjust the speed of the car. Still, she felt safe, trusting his judgment and ability to handle the powerful automobile. Eleanor concentrated on the ever changing view, wondering if they were getting close to the house. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a large building in the far distance, towering trees with Spanish moss draped romantically in the branches, and a spot of blue ocean.

  “Reflections,” Joshua announced as he turned into the end of the long gravel driveway. He punched a code into the security panel and two huge black wrought iron gates slowly swung open.

  Eleanor craned her neck back and watched the majestic gates in awe. Then she firmly pulled up her jaw and murmured, “Excuse me?”

  “Reflections,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable separately. “Home sweet home, sugar.”

  The sugar threw her, so it wasn’t until she read the engraved brass plate discreetly located on the brick wall surrounding the estate that she realized Reflections was the name of the property.

  Was he kidding? The house had a name?

  Panic whispered along Eleanor’s spine. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to deal with all of this. And he really didn’t need her help anymore. She had already given him a crash course in Rosemary’s books and explained the basic philosophy of picture books.

  Maybe if she asked very nicely he would turn the car around and bring her back to the airstrip. Or drop her near a pay phone so she could call a cab. They must have cabs in North Carolina, right?

  “Is this where you grew up?” she asked, when intense curiosity helped her find her voice.

  “No. We spent summers here when I was a kid and Thanksgiving once in a while. My father’s family were genuine carpetbaggers. They came south after the war and built this place with—”

  “The war?” Eleanor interrupted. “You can’t possibly mean the Civil War?”

  “The War Between the States,” Joshua corrected with a smile. “You’re below the Mason-Dixon Line now, so you’d better watch your tongue, sugar.”

  His imitation of a slow Southern drawl turned her insides to mush. She leaned back into the comfortable car seat and briefly shut her eyes. Maybe she could call for that cab after they arrived at the house.

  Joshua waited until the gates closed behind them before proceeding down the driveway. As they approached, she sat up and clutched the door handle. Then the house came into view and for the first time ever while in his company, there was something other than Joshua that claimed Eleanor’s complete attention.

  The house was huge. At least five stories and more Victorian or Gothic in style than the traditional white-columned Southern-style mansion she was expecting. There were turrets and rounded edges, gabled roofs, soaring towers of pale gray stone and shutters of dark green. Window boxes overflowed with blooming annuals beneath the upper floor windows.

  Wide, sweeping verandas edged the house, complete with white wicker furniture artfully grouped in conversation clusters. Lush dark-green-striped cushions added graciousness and a romantic flavor of by-gone days.

  The lush green grounds seemed to stretch all around until they were finally stopped by the blue ocean. The only other structures in sight were made with the same stones, clearly part of the estate. It was all so vast, private, and secluded, with an atmosphere that exemplified the very essence of grandeur.

  She had envisioned taste, elegance, and wealth, but this went one step beyond. Every blade of grass in place, every flower in perfect bloom. Even the air smelled crisper, cleaner. The entire picture spread before her eyes looked like a magazine layout. Eleanor couldn’t imagine anyone actually living in this beautiful place.

  “It’s magnificent,” Eleanor said with sincere awe. “Unbelievable. Like something out of a movie set. Or a fairy tale.”

  “No need to romanticize it,” Joshua said sharply, as he switched off the ignition. “It’s just a house.”

  Eleanor flushed. “Sorry,” she whispered, feeling like a complete idiot.

  Joshua sighed loudly. “No, I’m sorry,” he said as a flicker of regret marred the perfect symmetry of his handsome face. “My remarks were rude and totally uncalled for. Please forgive me.”

  “Okay.” Eleanor turned the car handle and scrambled to climb out of the car. Anything to put some distance between herself and Joshua.

  Then she felt the pressure of his strong grip on her forearm, forestalling her exit. She raised her head to stare at him and instantly saw regret darken his eyes.

  “The house is beautiful. I guess I had forgotten.” He ran his fingers impatiently through his hair. “I’m feeling very unprepared for this visit and it isn’t fair taking it out on you.” He opened his door and got out, making his way around to her side.

  Eleanor couldn’t begin to understand why he felt the need to be prepared to meet his father and his father’s wife, but she appreciated his apology.

  “Well, if you’re feeling unprepared you can only imagine how I feel,” Eleanor replied lightly, picking up the thread of conversation as Joshua assisted her out of the Porsche.

  He paused and tilted his head. A small, sexy smile tugged at his lips. “I have no doubt that you’ll impress the hell out of them.”

  Eleanor groaned at the outrageous flattery and fell in step beside him. “You have no idea how much I want to believe you,” she whispered softly, as they walked to the wide entrance doors.

  Five

  They didn’t get very far. After taking only a few steps toward the house, they saw those gorgeous wide double doors suddenly open. A couple stepped outside. Eleanor immediately recognized the woman as R
osemary Phillips. If anything she was prettier than her publicity photo, which Eleanor thought was most remarkable, since she had walked past many an author at a book signing because she had naively expected her to at least resemble her photograph.

  Rosemary was probably close to sixty years old but certainly didn’t look it. Her hair, a frosted blond, was cut short and full and framed her slender face artfully. She had large, expressive eyes, high cheekbones, very few wrinkles, and the most beautiful complexion Eleanor had ever seen.

  Standing beside her, hovering in an almost protective manner, was Joshua’s father. Although he was a handsome man, Eleanor could discern little resemblance between father and son. The older Barton’s face was longer and narrower than his son’s, his features sharper and more angular. Yet upon closer inspection she noted that physically the two men were very similar—tall, broad-shouldered, and well built.

  Though their faces were not alike, there was more than a hint of masculine pride and confidence in their expressions that was so similar it spoke of the blood ties between the older and younger man.

  There was no welcoming smile on Warren Barton’s face. He watched their approach silently, with brows drawn together over sharp, shrewd eyes. Eleanor thought longingly of the smothering hugs and kisses she always received from her widowed mother and vowed to call her mom the moment she returned home.

  Beside her, Joshua walked rigidly. His obvious tension made her even more nervous. Taking a deep breath for courage, Eleanor forced one foot in front of the other while her eyes darted anxiously between the two people standing so imposingly together.

  Rosemary and Warren made a very attractive pair, fit, trim, tanned, and dressed in elegant, casual clothes that said wealthy in a rather understated fashion. Yet Eleanor couldn’t help but think, Where is that famous Southern hospitality you always hear about? Honestly, would it kill them to at least smile?