Strawberry Lace

by Amy Belding Brown

  Her mother was weeding the tiny flower garden in front of her duplex when Chelsea pulled up. She was dressed in baggy slacks and a sweatshirt, with a pink bandanna wrapped around her short white hair.

  “I thought we were going out to eat!” Chelsea complained. “Did you forget this is my Sunday?”

  Her mother turned a luminous smile on her. “Yes, dear, I know. But I’m so tired of eating restaurant food. Bill’s taken me dining and dancing every night this week. Do you mind if we just stay here?”

  So they ate crabmeat sandwiches in her mother’s tiny kitchen while Chelsea related the details of Stuart’s proposal. She was relieved that her mother didn’t seem as curious as she’d expected. All she really wanted to talk about was her own budding romance with the guy who’d been to Australia.

  Chelsea listened as patiently as she could until her mother suggested, with a twinkle in her blue eyes, that she and Chelsea might want to consider a double ceremony.

  “You mean Bill’s proposed to you already?”

  “Not yet. But he’s going to. What do you think—should we tie the knot together?”

  Chelsea wiped her mouth again with the crumpled paper napkin. “I think I’d like my own wedding, Mom.”

  “I understand perfectly, dear. How are things going with the business?”

  “Pretty good, actually. We’re doing the Fourth of July for Muriel Winter.”

  “Muriel Winter! How wonderful!” Her mother lowered her voice confidentially, as if they were in a restaurant and might be overheard by other people. “Do you think you could arrange an invitation for Bill and me?”

  “You know I can’t do that kind of thing.”

  “I was just asking. I hear the Winter estate is really spectacular. Maybe I could help in the kitchen that night, just to get a peek.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “Well, it doesn’t hurt to ask. Have you met Muriel yet?”

  “Once. Actually, her son’s supervising all the party arrangements.”

  “Brandon’s back from England?”

  “Not Brandon. She has another son by her first marriage. His name’s Jeff Blaine.”

  “I’d heard she was married before, but I didn’t think there were any children. She was pretty young when her first husband died.”

  “Well, I don’t know the details, except that he’s her son and he’s the person I’m working with.”

  Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “What does he look like? Is he handsome?”

  “I suppose so, in a fashion-magazine kind of way. He’s tall, has dark hair and brown eyes.” She was startled by the odd little ripple of excitement in her chest as she mentally pictured Jeff. She shrugged it quickly away.

  “What does he do? For work, I mean?”

  “I don’t expect he does anything except travel around the world. He said something about being in Africa last year.”

  “How exciting! Wouldn’t you just love to see Africa?”

  “Not particularly. I like it here. Anyway, you know I have a job that I adore. And which is more important to me than all the money and leisure time in the world.”

  “Don’t get huffy. I was just thinking how nice—”

  “I know what you were thinking, Mom. And I’m perfectly happy with my life. Just the way it is. Fiancé and all.”

  “If you say so, Chelsea.” She stood and picked up her plate. “What shall we do this afternoon? How about a walk down by the marina?”

  “Sounds good to me.” Chelsea carried her own plate to the sink. The entire length of her spine felt tight, as if the disks had locked together like cold, metal couplings.

  They spent the afternoon watching sailboats ply the water of the Royal River. The sails caught the sunlight like triangles crayoned by a child in radiant colors. Chelsea wondered what it would be like to have enough money to own a sailboat. There was something magical about seeing the bright sails under the high blue sky.

  She walked her mother back to her house and gave her a warm good-bye hug before she left. She felt relaxed and refreshed. The walk and the fresh salt air had done her good. As she headed south again on the interstate, she found herself singing along with the radio. But all the way home, for some strange reason, her mind kept pulling up images of Jeff Blaine. He was smiling down at her, his dark eyes sparkling and his long dimple showing. And she was smiling back.

  Chapter Nine

  Chelsea woke to the insistent ring of the telephone. Startled, she rolled over and snatched the receiver out of its cradle on her bedside table. The clock read seven-thirty. Who on earth was calling this early in the morning?

  “Hello? Strawberry Lace.”

  “Chelsea? Hope I didn’t wake you.” The instant she heard Jeff’s voice, she remembered her promise. She’d assured him she’d come up with a menu for the surprise party, but she hadn’t done a thing, hadn’t even thought about it all weekend.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I’m awake. What can I do for you?”

  “I need to change the date of the surprise party. Move it up to June seventh. Can you do that?”

  She almost gasped. “The seventh? That’s less than two weeks away!”

  “I know. But my mother’s going to Boston on the tenth. And I’d really like to have the party before she leaves.”

  She hesitated. “I’m just not sure—”

  “I’ll help. You can even put me to work in the kitchen, if you like.” His tone lowered, became strangely intimate. “Please. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

  Chelsea’s stomach fluttered. “Okay, I’ll try.”

  “Good. Would it help if I came down and approved the menu right now?”

  “No . . . I . . .” She swallowed. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “No problem. I have some ideas. We can make plans this morning.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Over breakfast at the Seacroft Inn. My treat.”

  “The Seacroft Inn!”

  “Yes. They serve a great breakfast buffet there. Have you ever sampled their currant scones?”

  “No, but I’ve heard about them.” The Seacroft was one of the most exclusive restaurants on the coast of Maine. It was actually a resort, with private dining rooms and intimate lounges, even a library. She’d never gone there, had only caught glimpses of the stately stone mansion set on wide, rolling lawns overlooking the ocean. But she’d always dreamed of dining at the Seacroft. Just once before she died, she promised herself, she’d sit by one of those tall, leaded glass windows, with the candlelight glowing on her hair, and gaze out to sea.

  “You’ll love them, I promise.”

  “I appreciate your offer.” She tried to sound calm and professional but her heart was pounding much too hard and her chest felt constricted. “But I usually do the planning with my sister, and she doesn’t work mornings.”

  “That’s all right. I’m sure, between the two of us, we can come up with something interesting.”

  “Jeff, I—”

  “You want to go. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “What I want and what’s good for Strawberry Lace are two separate things.”

  “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.” He hung up before she could get in another word.

  Chelsea sat for a moment, staring at the receiver in her hand. She felt a little dizzy. She’d never met anyone quite so self-confident and assertive. Except for Muriel Winter. Jeff certainly came by his forcefulness honestly. She wondered if dealing with the very rich was always like this. Did you always feel like nothing more than a cog in a wheel, manipulated for the other person’s convenience? Wasn’t that how people became wealthy in the first place? By using other people? Well, she’d have to put up with it for the sake of the business. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  Chelsea showered and dressed quickly in a simple black dress. She clipped a string of false pearls around her neck and draped her lime-green cardigan over her shoulders. After slidi
ng into a pair of black heels, she piled her hair into a loose knot on the top of her head and secured it with combs. She checked herself in the mirror at least a dozen times, wondering if she looked elegant enough for the Seacroft, finally resigning herself to the fact that she probably didn’t and never would, given her present budget. The sound of Jeff’s car pulling up to the curb in front of the apartment made her scurry to locate her menu planning books and hurry down the stairs so he wouldn’t have to climb them.

  She burst through the door onto the sidewalk and was surprised to find him wearing comfortable slacks and a casual knit shirt. She realized with a little start of horror that she was overdressed.

  “Should I change?” she asked faintly.

  His eyes roved quickly over her body and came back to her face. “Absolutely not. You look terrific.” He opened the passenger door for her.

  She climbed in, clutching the notebooks against her breasts, and it was only when he was beside her and snapping his seat belt around him that she remembered hers. In the process of putting it on, Chelsea released the notebooks and they fell to the floor. As she leaned forward to retrieve them, he reached for them as well, and her hand inadvertently brushed his. She felt an electric tingle travel up her arm to her shoulder.

  When she looked up, he was smiling at her, his dark eyes shining with an expression that told her he knew exactly what she was feeling. That he was feeling the same thing.

  The Seacroft was even more elegant than she’d imagined. Subdued blue and rose Oriental carpets covered the floors; the walls were paneled in richly carved oak; tapestries hung from the vaulted ceilings. As they entered the foyer, it was all Chelsea could do not to stop and gape up at the ornate chandeliers.

  There were only three other diners in the breakfast room: an elderly couple sitting next to the massive marble fireplace, and a middle-aged woman immersed in the New York Times. A waiter, immaculately attired in a white dress shirt and black slacks, escorted Chelsea and Jeff to a small table near a bay window overlooking the ocean. Chelsea tried to slide her notebooks inconspicuously under her chair, but the waiter picked them up and offered to set them aside for her.

  “I don’t know—” She hesitated and glanced at Jeff.

  “Take them, by all means,” Jeff said to the waiter. “We’ll let you know when we need them.”

  The waiter nodded and disappeared.

  “Why did you do that?” She felt as if her voice were strangely muffled in the huge room. Maybe it was just the intimidating surroundings.

  “He’ll bring them to us any time we want them,” Jeff said quietly. He picked up his plate. “Shall we eat?”

  They headed for the far end of the room, where a buffet table was laid out in front of tall, leaded windows. The array of food was staggering. The table was covered with baskets of croissants, muffins, and biscuits; trays of baked ham slices and tiny sausages in puff pastry; bowls of scrambled eggs and warming pans holding a variety of omelets. Chelsea spotted a wicker basket heaped with currant scones next to a dish of dark apple butter. She helped herself eagerly, suddenly ravenous. She also selected a slice of ham and a delicate omelet filled with asparagus tips. She waited while Jeff heaped his plate with scones, sausages, and scrambled eggs, and then they returned to their seats.

  The table was situated so that they couldn’t see any of the other diners, giving Chelsea the sensation that she and Jeff were completely alone. She broke open a scone, buttered it and took a bite. It was even more delicious than she had imagined. She felt Jeff’s eyes on her and smiled, nodding appreciatively.

  “They’re wonderful!”

  “What did I tell you?”

  She tried to think of something to say to start the conversation. “The view is marvelous.” She gesture toward the window and the blue ocean swells beyond. “It makes me want to go down and walk on the beach.”

  “Good. We’ll do that.”

  She gave him a startled look. “Don’t they . . . I mean, do they actually allow that?”

  “Of course. We’re the guests.” His penetrating gaze was making her distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Well, I was just fantasizing. I really don’t have time for that sort of thing.”

  “It’s not a crime to enjoy life, Chelsea. Business isn’t the only thing that’s important, you know.”

  Her shoulder blades stiffened. “It is to me.”

  “Not really. You’re just saying that because I make you nervous.”

  “Nervous? Who said I was nervous?”

  “Nobody had to.” He smiled and a strand of dark hair fell across his forehead. “It’s sticking out all over you. Just relax. I don’t bite.”

  “I am relaxed!” She speared an asparagus tip on her fork, lifted it to her mouth and chewed vigorously.

  “Good.” He was still giving her that knowing smile.

  “Shouldn’t we get started on the menu for the party?”

  “There’s no rush.”

  “I thought that’s why we were here—to work on menu plans over breakfast.”

  “We have plenty of time.”

  You might have that luxury, Chelsea thought darkly, but I certainly don’t. In my business, there’s always more than enough to do to fill every minute of the day. She buttered another scone. It seemed that Jeff had a definite idea of how his role as employer would be executed. And there was little Chelsea could do, short of quitting.

  He started talking about sailing, and about the different wind currents and how they affected sailboats. She listened halfheartedly, wondering when in the world he would get around to the party menu. She finished eating first, and waited for him to bring up the subject of the menu. But he still kept talking, going on and on about the fine points of ocean navigation, and she found herself increasingly irritated with his breezy nonchalance. Finally, she could stand it no longer.

  “Excuse me, Jeff, but exactly what are your intentions here?”

  He gave her a startled frown.

  “You brought me here just to . . .” She groped for words. "I don’t know what. Just to talk, I guess.”

  “Is there something wrong with talking?”

  “I thought the reason we were here was to discuss the menu. To plan for the surprise party. That’s why I brought my notebooks.” She felt her cheeks redden under his gaze. “I understood this was to be a business breakfast.”

  “Ahh, yes. A business breakfast. Well, to tell you the truth, Chelsea, I’ve never felt that mixing business with pleasure was a very good idea.”

  “But this isn’t pleasure!”

  “It isn’t?” He leaned back in his chair.

  “I didn’t mean—” She was suddenly confused. Why was he deliberately misconstruing her words? “The food was wonderful, Seacroft is wonderful, but I thought—”

  “Don’t.” He reached across the table and took her hand. Little shivers danced up her arm. “Look, I’ll be honest with you. I like you. Something happens when I’m with you that I’ve never experienced before. There’s a powerful connection between us.”

  She felt her palm dampen in his and snatched her hand away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t.”

  He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Let’s go take that walk on the beach.” He didn’t wait for her to agree, just came around and held her chair. She was trying to decide if she should just stay put and insist that the waiter bring back her books, when he put his hand on her shoulder. She was suddenly aware that more people had come into the room and several of them were watching her.

  She stood up. She knew better than to make a scene in a place like Seacroft. There were people right here, in this very room, who might someday be her clients. She let Jeff take her arm and lead her to a massive oak door. When he opened it, she stepped quickly outside, into the fresh, summer morning.

  Chelsea’s first step off the stone patio and into the lush green lawn made her hi
gh heel sink out of sight. She swayed sideways and Jeff caught her elbow.

  “Guess you’d better take off those stilts.” Before she could react, he’d squatted in front of her and was slipping off her shoes. His hands felt warm through the sheer mesh of her panty hose. A shiver climbed her spine, and she pushed it away angrily. She was getting tired of the way her body was reacting. This man might be rich and handsome, but he didn’t mean anything to her. He was just a client, and there was no reason for the abrupt, electric flutter in her stomach whenever he was near.

  He placed her shoes on the edge of the patio, and then, to her surprise, took off his own shoes and socks and rolled the legs of his slacks to mid-calf.

  “Come on!” He started down the wide lawn toward the beach. Chelsea followed reluctantly. The scones felt like a weight in the pit of her stomach. She shouldn’t be doing this, she knew. She should be poring over her planning books, making notes on the details of the surprise party. She didn’t have time for a walk on the beach.

  The tide was coming in, tongues of frothy seawater lapping the smooth sand. Chelsea hesitated at the head of the beach and watched Jeff run toward the water. The sand crumbled under his feet, leaving deep, bronze-colored footprints. He ran into the surf, laughing as it splashed up around his legs. He turned and waved her toward him, and when she shook her head, ran back to her. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the water.

  “No!” she squealed. “I’m not dressed for this!”

  But he didn’t pay attention, just continued to drag her toward the surf. She felt a wild, reckless excitement build in her as she struggled against his viselike grip. She’d never felt anything like this. It was like being afraid and eager at the same time. It was almost as if she wanted this man to overpower her with his superior strength, to subdue her until she had no will of her own.

  “Stop! Please! My panty hose will be ruined!” Her chest was heaving under the tight bodice of her dress, but it wasn’t from physical exertion.

  “Then take them off.” He turned to challenge her with his eyes. His hand still held her wrist tightly.

  She shook her head, but it was only a halfhearted shake, and when he gave her another tug toward the water, she pulled away and bent to strip off the panty hose. She threw them back onto the beach, where they made a small brown pile that looked like a distant sand castle.