“Mrs. Winter doesn’t approve of music at her parties,” Beth was saying. “She claims it drowns out the ocean.”
Lori made sympathetic noises. “And you said there would be about sixty guests?”
“Yes, that’s a pretty firm figure. Almost everyone attends who’s lucky enough to be invited to one of Mrs. Winter’s parties.”
Chelsea tasted something bitter in the back of her throat.
“I’ll show you part of the grounds now,” Beth continued. “Unfortunately, there are certain gardens that are off-limits. Mrs. Winter is very particular about her gardens.” She crossed the parquet floor to open one of the French doors. A cool sea breeze swirled into the room.
“Excuse me,” Chelsea said, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like to check out the kitchen again.” She smiled apologetically and waved them on. “You go ahead, Lori. I’ll catch up with you.”
This was an old tactic; they’d used it so many times, Lori didn’t even miss a beat.
“That’s a great idea, Chels,” she said, taking Beth’s arm and steering her outside before Muriel Winter’s personal secretary had the chance to consider the implications of an outsider wandering unaccompanied through the big house.
Chapter Two
Chelsea ducked through the door and hurried back down the stairs. She did need to check out the kitchen again, so she hadn’t actually lied. But it was more than that. The reason she always invented an excuse to be alone in the house where they were going to cater a party was to get a sense of the building’s vibrations. It was a weird idea, one she knew no employer would understand, least of all an arrogant one like Muriel Winter. But it was important to pick up the emanations of the house, to detect the “warm” spots in the building, where people were most likely to relax and open up to each other. It was the real secret ingredient of their success, the reason that Strawberry Lace had yet to cater a party where the guests hadn’t gone home raving about the food.
She promised herself to take no more than twenty minutes. After quickly checking out the kitchen, making sure that the requisite number of trays and chafing dishes was available, she slipped back up the stairs to thoroughly explore the first floor. Off the main dining room were the two smaller dining rooms, overlooking an expansive rose garden. Off the larger of these two rooms was a small kitchen. She mentally berated Beth for not revealing this room, then reasoned that it was probably used privately by the Winter family—though she couldn’t imagine Muriel Winter lifting a finger anywhere near a stove—and Beth had probably had orders not to show it. Still, it would be a useful place from which to serve the hot hors d’oeuvres. She made a note to ask Beth about its availability for the party. She’d beg if she had to. At the very least, she’d point out how much more successful a party was if the waiters weren’t exhausted from running up and downstairs.
Most of the cooking would be done outdoors, in the long grills she’d had made to specification. The hors d’oeuvres would be made ahead of time, which only left the preparation of the dessert sauces for the fruit mélange, the baking of the shortcake, and whipping the cream to be done on the premises. They would use the long dining table as a buffet table, with their trademark of fresh strawberries mounded in a lace-draped wicker basket as the centerpiece.
She noted that the smallest dining room was a definite warm spot. She could feel the little hairs on the back of her neck lift in excitement. She would definitely use this room for something. If she could get people in here first thing, it would start the party off on the right foot. They’d be feeling great before the main meal was even served.
Chelsea tucked the notebook back into her purse and crossed to the far end of the big dining room, where an open doorway led to a hallway. She peeked into a sitting room and caught a glimpse of pastel blue walls, white woodwork and blue and rose chintz, a stack of magazines on a walnut coffee table. She noted the warm tingling at the top of her spine. Another warm spot. Something to keep in mind.
She checked her watch, realized that she was already pushing her self-imposed twenty-minute time limit. She glanced quickly into a powder room, a dark-paneled, book-filled library, and then she came to the main living room.
It was gorgeous. There wasn’t any other word for it. It ran the entire length of the house, yet the clever arrangement of comfortable furniture made it look inviting and homelike, almost cozy. Someone had decorated it with a sure, practiced hand. Pale blue walls and white woodwork, fireplaces at each end, blue and white upholstered chairs and couches, and an exquisite Aubusson carpet, made it definitely the most beautiful room in the house.
Tall windows looked out on a deep porch, facing the ocean. Light filtered through trees at the side windows, scattering blue and gold patterns across the floor. She imagined herself sitting here on a late summer afternoon, tucked into a corner of a couch, reading a book, or talking quietly with her good friend Stuart. Everything was serene and graceful, with an understated elegance that was almost erotic in its intensity. The image was almost too powerful to resist. She took a deep breath and smiled. Another warm spot, definitely. It was too bad Muriel Winter hadn’t decided that this room would be the party center. She looked at her watch again and scowled. She’s taken almost thirty minutes, much too long. She’d have to go hunting for Lori and Beth now, and make up some story about counting the spoons to cover herself.
She hurried back to the dining room and went out through the French doors. She shaded her eyes to scrutinize the sweeping lawns. There was no sign of either Beth or Lori. She shrugged. She’d start by circling the house and keeping her ears open. She could recognize the sound of her big sister’s voice a mile away.
Chelsea headed for a gap in the shrubbery to her left, and within minutes she was lost in a maze of gardens. She didn’t panic at first, reasoning that she could always retrace her steps. But uneasiness turned to anxiety as she tried to get her bearings and pushed through a thick hedge of rosebushes, ripping her panty hose and tearing a line of tiny holes in her skirt.
She groaned and collapsed onto a wrought-iron bench. She was bending over her skirt, cursing herself for her clumsiness, when she heard a movement behind her. She jumped to her feet and whirled, only to find herself looking, once again, into the dark eyes of Jeff Blaine.
He was wearing the same jeans and white T-shirt, only now he had a red bandanna knotted around his head and his feet were no longer bare. He was wearing cowboy boots, expensive ones, she noted, which seemed strangely incongruous in this manicured setting. He held a pair of garden shears and he was grinning at her, that same, unsettling grin he’d given her before.
“Well, well, what have we here? Snooping around the house all by ourselves, are we?”
“No! Of course not! I was looking for Beth and Lori. I seem to have gotten lost. These gardens are confusing.”
He nodded, still grinning, as he came toward her. There was a smear of dirt across the front of his T-shirt, and sweat had dampened the bandanna. He was obviously the gardener.
“Would you mind showing me the way back to the house?” Chelsea tried furtively to cover the rip in her skirt by draping one arm in front of her, but she saw that it was too late; his eyes had spotted the tear.
“You didn’t hurt yourself did you? Those roses are killers.”
“I’m fine. Just take me back to the house, Mr. Blaine.”
“Jeff,” he said. “And I’d be happy to help you. I’m always delighted to rescue a lady in distress.” He tossed the garden shears onto the bench. “This particular area is a loosely designed maze, so stay close.” Without another word, he took her hand and led her along a narrow, twisting path between tall, yellow flowers she didn’t recognize.
She couldn’t believe how awkward she felt. She wasn’t the kind of woman to get lost in the first place; she had a keen sense of direction. She rarely even had to rely on maps to locate where she was going. Yet here she was, lost only a few feet from a house, in a garden so huge it was like some giant’s labyrinth. To t
op it all off, a disconcertingly handsome gardener with the most extraordinary eyes she’d ever seen was leading her by the hand as if she were a baby.
She was trying to figure out how to remove her hand without offending the gardener, when he parted some shrubbery and they were suddenly standing at a corner of the wide front porch.
“There.” He released her with a firm squeeze. “All safe and sound.”
“Thank you very much.” She knew she sounded uncharacteristically prim, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t felt so unnerved in years. “I really appreciate it.”
“Hey, no problem. How about a glass of lemonade or something?”
“Thanks, but I couldn’t.”
“Sure you could. Come on, we’ll wait for Beth in the kitchen.” He turned away and headed off along another path close to the house.
Chelsea hesitated a moment, then went after him. She was struck by how charismatic he was; she found it hard to resist his suggestions. It was almost as if his eyes had hypnotized her. She understood how easy it must have been for him to seduce Beth Harmon. One wink from this man could, she suspected, melt most women.
Luckily, she was immune to such maneuvers. Her long-term relationship with Stuart Potter protected her from an interest in other men. She’d been friends with Stuart since high school, when they’d discovered a mutual passion for the ocean. Though Chelsea had never pursued that obsession the way Stuart had when he went into business as a lobsterman, she still loved the times when they took off in his boat for leisurely explorations of the Casco Bay islands. There was nothing better than lounging on the deck of Chelsea’s Choice on a cloudless, summer afternoon.
Chelsea had been flattered when Stuart named his boat after her, and when some of her friends had attached a romantic significance to the gesture, she’d wondered if maybe Stuart was trying to tell her something. It had never occurred to her that Stuart might think of her as anything other than a close friend. But perhaps there were undercurrents in their relationship she wasn’t aware of.
Anyhow, she was much too happy with things as they were to want to make changes. She knew that most people assumed she and Stuart were lovers, and she’d never gone out of her way to correct the illusion. Letting them think she had an active sex life had its advantages. People introduced her to their single male friends with a certain tone in their voices which conveyed the understanding that she was taken. When she was approached at a party by some obnoxious man, all she had to do was mention Stuart’s name. She never had to worry about whether she’d be spending Saturday night alone; she never agonized over finding an escort to the dances she loved. Stuart was always there for her. They had the kind of warm, secure, comfortable relationship that most couples didn’t achieve until after years of marriage. There were no emotional demands between them. They were just good friends. It was a perfect relationship.
Chelsea rarely discussed these thoughts with anyone but Stuart; she knew without inquiring that other people would object. The myth that chemistry was the most important aspect of a male-female relationship was deeply ingrained in the culture. But except for a brief fling in college with an egotistical teaching assistant, she’d gotten along just fine for twenty-six years without passion. There was a lot more to life than hormones. Her own mother’s failed marriages certainly proved that romance wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Jeff’s voice pulled her back into the present. “Come on in,” he said, opening a door to reveal the big, brick-walled kitchen. “Make yourself at home.” He crossed the huge room and took a pitcher of lemonade from one of the big refrigerators. “Glasses are in the cupboard in the pantry. First one on your left, second shelf.”
Chelsea found two tall blue tumblers and set them on the kitchen counter. Jeff was at the sink, washing his hands.
“So how’d you get into the catering business?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Actually, it was a friend’s idea. About three years ago we were both going crazy in our jobs in Portland, and she suggested that we start our own business. It took about two minutes to come up with the idea of catering; we both loved to cook.”
He grabbed a towel from a rack beside the sink and turned to face her. “Loved? As in past tense?”
“No, not at all. I couldn’t be happier.”
He dried his hands and flipped the towel back onto the rack. “I couldn’t help noticing that your friend is pregnant.”
“Oh, Lori’s not my friend, she’s my sister.” Chelsea slid onto one of the tall stools beside the counter. “My friend’s gone. She’s been living in L.A. for the past two years.”
He poured lemonade into the glasses and handed her one as he sat on the stool beside her. She was surprised at the strange flutter in her stomach. It wasn’t at all like her to react to a man’s proximity. She took a sip of lemonade. It was delicious, just the right mixture of sweetness and tartness. She wondered if she dared ask him to get the recipe for her.
“Why L.A.?” Jeff was holding his glass in front of his chin, staring at her over the rim.
“Because she wanted to get as far away from the East Coast as possible.” Chelsea pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and took another sip.
“Why?”
The man was full of questions. And he was still watching her; he hadn’t even tasted his lemonade. Chelsea wondered how much she should say about Holly’s situation, then decided to go ahead and tell him what had happened. He wouldn’t be surprised; he worked for Muriel Winter himself and he surely knew her customs.
“Because the Winter family lives on the East Coast. She was engaged to Mrs. Winter’s son, Brandon. And then your employer”—Chelsea rolled her eyes—“got on her high horse and broke it up. My friend wasn’t good enough for her wonderful son.” She took another swallow of lemonade, letting the tangy liquid wash her suddenly dry throat. “Holly’s heart was broken. She almost killed herself. But she’s better now. At least in L.A. she isn’t always reading in the paper about the Winter family’s latest financial maneuvers.”
Jeff put down his glass and shifted closer to her. His mouth was quirked into a strange little grin; his dark eyes were shining. “So you don’t have much admiration for Mrs. Winter, I take it?”
“That’s putting it mildly. I know she’s very popular with the rich crowd along the coast. But I don’t know any regular people who respect her.” She swung on her stool to face him. “Do you like working for her?”
He shrugged. “She’s not so bad.”
“Well, to each his own, I guess.” She found refuge again in her lemonade, taking a long drink. She’d obviously made a mistake, telling the gardener her feelings about Muriel Winter. He probably hadn’t been working for her long enough to glimpse her ruthless side.
“What do you do for fun, Chelsea?” He was still watching her. She could feel the pressure of his eyes, almost as if they were the pads of his fingers, firm and hot on her skin.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t have a lot of free time.” She glanced at her watch. “I wonder where Lori is? She should be done by now.”
“She’ll be along any minute. What’s the hurry?” He reached out and brushed her arm with his finger. “Are you free this afternoon?”
“Why?”
“I thought maybe we could spend it together.”
Her stomach fluttered again. It was such an odd, disturbing sensation, like hundreds of insects flying around inside her. “Doing what?” The question came out so spontaneously, she didn’t even think about its implication until he smiled. Then she realized that she’d given him a conditional assent, that by not saying no immediately, she’d given him the impression that she was willing, that it was simply a matter of finding some mutually agreeable activity.
He touched her arm again, very lightly. “We could go to the beach. It’s a nice, warm day.”
“I can’t. I have too much to do. Don’t you have to work?”
He smiled. “I’m free all afternoon. The evening too, if tha
t’s better. How about dinner?”
She shook her head and slid her arm away from him. “I really can’t.”
“Another time maybe.”
“Well, no. Actually, I’m involved with someone.”
His face sobered briefly. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Though I am disappointed.” He picked up his glass and took a long drink.
Chelsea got up and crossed the room to one of the windows. Perhaps she should go out and look for Lori and Beth. The risk of getting lost again seemed minuscule compared to the discomfort of being in the same room with this seductive gardener. She could understand why Beth had looked as she did when she and Lori first arrived. If he came on to Beth the same way he had to her just now, it would be next to impossible to resist him. The thought jarred her, and she tasted a film of disgust on the back of her tongue. How could she even think such a thing? She’d learned long ago that there was nobody out there who could come close to offering her the warm companionship she had with Stuart. She sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving for her friend.
She was about to open the door and look around when she heard Lori’s voice and the sound of footsteps on the stairs to the dining room. She felt a wave of grateful relief as she turned to greet her sister.
Beth was showing them out to the van when Chelsea suddenly remembered the flowers. She kicked herself for having forgotten them; it was always important to know what the client preferred in the way of floral arrangements. Usually it was one of the first things she covered after seeing the layout. Obviously, the encounter with the gardener had unsettled her even more than she realized.
Strawberry Lace Page 2