“Yes?”
“I really am sorry about this morning.”
“I’d rather not discuss it further.” He hung up quickly, leaving her holding the receiver in an oddly moist hand.
As she was brushing her teeth that night, Chelsea examined her narrow left hand and tried to imagine what it would look like with an engagement ring on it. The stone would be small, of course, nothing like the huge stone Brandon had given Holly. But it would still be a sign of her commitment to Stuart, her intention to spend the rest of her life with him. Starting this summer. She rinsed out her toothbrush and dropped it into the wall rack. She had to pick a date soon, before her calendar was completely full. There was already so much going on that it was hard to keep everything straight in her mind: the yacht club wedding, the surprise party, the Independence Day affair—if they could manage to change Muriel Winter’s mind—the string of weddings through July and August, the tension between herself and Lori, her mother’s new boyfriend. Not to mention that morning’s extremely disturbing encounter with Jeff. Her own wedding just didn’t have any room to squeeze inside her overcrowded brain.
She climbed into bed, flicked off the light, and slid down between the cool sheets. Pictures drifted behind her closed eyelids: the sun on the bright wings of a swooping herring gull, surf licking the beach below the Seacroft Inn, ocean swells breaking over her bare feet. Then an image loomed up that tightened her breath and made the backs of her legs feel suddenly weak: Jeff Blaine taking her face in his hands and kissing her tenderly. She tried to push it away, but it persisted, and when she finally fell asleep, she was being cradled again in Jeff’s strong arms, rocked like a child against his broad chest.
Lori arrived at the shop at nine-thirty the next morning, and together she and Chelsea came up with a tentative menu, so that by the time Jeff came, Chelsea felt reasonably composed. They sat around a small table in the kitchen and Lori ran the meeting Jeff’s dark eyes were directed toward her and avoided Chelsea completely. He agreed quickly to their suggestion of crudités, fruit and cheese, using fresh, seasonal fruits and vegetables and an array of Strawberry Lace’s own dips and fondues. There were to be fifteen guests, and the attire would be informal. When Lori brought up the question of the bar, Jeff quickly insisted that he wanted no alcohol served. Chelsea shot him a curious glance at the unusual request. Did it confirm her suspicion that Muriel was an alcoholic? It would make things a bit more demanding for Strawberry Lace the night of the party. Without liquor, a lot of people had trouble loosening up and relaxing.
She left it to Lori to ask all the standard questions about budget, table service, flowers, and the length of the party. Jeff answered matter-of-factly. He didn’t even glance at her until the meeting was over and they were standing at the door, politely shaking hands. His eyes locked onto hers for the briefest of moments, then swung away. As he left the shop, a strange, forsaken feeling welled into the pit of her stomach, as if she’d just been informed that someone she loved very much had died.
Chapter Eleven
Stuart picked up Chelsea late that afternoon, and the first thing he wanted to know was whether she’d picked a wedding date yet.
“No,” she sighed, climbing into his battered pickup. “I’m sorry. I honestly haven’t had a chance to look at my calendar.”
“How about the Fourth of July? It would make it easy to remember our anniversary.” He grinned over at her.
“Good idea, except for the little matter of Muriel Winter’s party that Strawberry Lace is supposedly putting on that day.”
“What do you mean, supposedly?”
“Muriel’s having second thoughts. She’s talking about calling it off for personal reasons. Frankly, I think the so-called ‘personal reason’ is that she’s drunk all the time. The day I went up there to meet her, she couldn’t even walk straight.”
Stuart nodded. “I’ve heard stories. One of the dock workers at the marina saw her fall a few days ago. There’s certainly something wrong.”
“It serves her right. I’ve never forgiven her for the way she treated Holly.”
“Chels, when it comes to your friends, you’re so loyal you wouldn’t forgive a fly for landing a yard away.”
She laughed. It was always fun being with Stuart. He put things in perspective for her, made her business worries disappear. When she was with him, she felt completely relaxed. There was no unsettling dampening of her palms, no stomach flutters, no startling floods of desire.
Chelsea selected a simple ring, a tiny stone set in a narrow gold band. Stuart made her put it on immediately, then took her to a waterfront restaurant to celebrate. She ordered a seafood salad with vinaigrette dressing and a side order of sugar peas with mushrooms; Stuart ordered steak. She was impressed with the salad when it came; the array of shrimp, scallops, and clams was attractively arranged on a bed of black olives, long strips of sweet red peppers, and julienned scallions. As always, whenever she ate out, she tried to dissect the recipe by analyzing the various flavors. She detected a hint of Dijon mustard and red wine in the dressing, and discovered that the peppers had been roasted. She teased Stuart about ordering such everyday fare when the restaurant’s chef obviously had a wonderful flare for gourmet food.
“I’m just trying to make it easy on the chef,” he retorted. “When we’re married, you’re going to be grateful I like simple food best, especially after one of your killer days.”
She speared a curl of shrimp and lifted it to her mouth. “Are you implying that I’m going to do all the cooking?”
“Only if you want something edible. You know how I cook. Remember that time I tried to fix you a complete lobster dinner?”
Chelsea laughed. “And boiled lobster’s the easiest dinner in the world.”
“So they tell me. I guess I’ve made my point.”
“You sure have.”
After dinner, Stuart suggested that they go back to his place. “Why don’t you spend the night?” he said, leaning over the truck’s stick shift and squeezing her knee.
“I wish I could, but I have to get back to the shop. I’ve got a long evening ahead of me. Next Saturday’s yacht club wedding is already giving me a headache.” That wasn’t true, actually; things were in pretty good shape. But she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the thought of sleeping with Stuart.
He put his arm around her. “Your job can wait for once, can’t it?” He was gazing at her hopefully. “Please, Chels.”
“I’m just so tired.” She sighed and let her head rest on his arm. He is your fiancé, an inner voice reminded her. Engaged couples are usually intimate, aren’t they? “Okay,” she relented. “We’ll go to your cabin.”
He cupped her cheek with his free hand. “I don’t want to push you, if you’re not ready.”
“You’re not, Stuart. Of course I’m ready.”
His broad smile told her how much her acquiescence meant to him.
On the way to his house, Stuart chatted about the price of lobster and the upcoming boat races in Boothbay Harbor. He was thinking of going this year, he told her. He could count on her for a copilot, couldn’t he?
“It depends on how busy I am,” she said. “I’ll have to look at my calendar.”
“I’m really beginning to resent that calendar, Chels. You’re going to have to start penciling me in every day, just so we can talk.”
She laughed. “That’s not a bad idea.”
In his tiny living room, Stuart took her in his arms and kissed her eagerly. She tried to respond by making her hands wander over his chest and back, the way his were roaming over her body. When he unbuttoned her blouse and kissed her breasts, she gasped, but it was less from arousal than surprise. She’d thought of Stuart for so long in terms of friendship that this new intimacy was hard to absorb, even as it was happening. He stroked her neck and back, let his hands slide over her hips and it was then, as he was groping for the button on her skirt, that she pulled away.
“I’m sorry, Stuart,” she s
aid, pulling her blouse back over her breasts. “But I’m afraid I’m just too tired. Could we take a rain check? Please?”
She saw the disappointment in his eyes, and felt a strong pang of regret. She reached up to caress his cheek. “I want our first time to be really special,” she whispered. “I’d like to be wide awake so I can savor every minute of it.”
He sighed and kissed her hand. “You’re right. As usual. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
He kissed her again when he dropped her off. It was a sweet, gentle kiss, but she felt strangely cheated. It’s Jeff Blaine’s fault, she thought angrily as she climbed the stairs to her apartment. That kiss on the beach spoiled her for anyone else. She froze in mid-climb, appalled at the implication of her thought. Her hand was still trembling a moment later, when she unlocked her door at the top of the stairs.
The next four days were mercifully filled with detailed preparations for the yacht club wedding, so Chelsea didn’t have time to think about Stuart or Jeff or anyone but the bridal couple. Saturday dawned sunny, and when she and Lori drove out to the club early that morning to set up, the sky was a shimmering, cloudless blue dome above the van. The reception was scheduled for two, and by noon the decorations were in place and the lawn tent had been set up. Chelsea spent the next hour finishing the cake decoration process, only part of which could be done in the shop. She used a fluted pattern for the frosting, and added real white roses to the icing rosettes she’d constructed around the cake’s sharp edges. She topped it off with a spray of fragrant roses, baby’s breath, and lemon leaves. Then she and Lori carried it into the dining room and placed it in the center of the long buffet table in front of the fireplace.
By 1:45 everything was ready. The waiters had arrived and both Chelsea and Lori had changed into their Strawberry Lace uniforms. The trademark basket of strawberries was positioned unobtrusively near the door to the kitchen, and the bartender had already uncorked the champagne.
The guests started to drift in just before two. Lori was busy in the kitchen, spreading chicken paté on heart toasts, while Chelsea was making last minute adjustments to the display of crystal champagne glasses on the long bar. As the first guest entered, she nodded to the waiters to start pouring champagne, then slipped over to a side window, to keep an eye out for the bride and groom.
But what she saw, as she gazed out at the parking lot, made her breath lock in her throat. There, only a few feet beyond the window, emerging from a long, gray Cadillac, was the familiar figure of Muriel Winter, followed by Jeff Blaine.
Lori glanced up from the silver tray where she was arranging toast hearts as Chelsea burst into the kitchen.
“What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s Jeff Blaine! He and his mother are guests at the wedding.”
“So? This is the society wedding of the season, you know.” Lori’s pretty face crinkled into a smile. “Why are you blushing like that?”
“Am I?” Chelsea pressed her hands to her cheeks.
“Most definitely. And it’s a very charming effect too. Goes with your hair.” Lori placed the tray next to a platter of glistening white coconut ceviche. “It’s Jeff, isn’t it? You’ve got a crush on him.”
“I have no such thing!”
“I recognize an infatuation when I see one, Chels. I’m just surprised I didn’t pick up on it earlier. Must be my reflexes are slowing down because of Junior, here.” She patted her belly affectionately.
“You couldn’t be more wrong. I’m engaged, remember?”
“How convenient. Good old Stuart protects you once again from the predatory American male. One of these days Stuart is going to realize what’s really going on and he’s going to be deeply hurt. Have you thought of that?”
“I’d never do anything to hurt Stuart!”
Lori’s smile disappeared. “Then maybe you should break the engagement, before he starts believing you’re in love with him.”
“I am in love with him!”
“No, you’re not. And you never will be. Stuart’s just not the right kind of man for you.”
“I don’t know why you keep saying that!” Chelsea’s eyes stung. “Stuart’s the perfect man for me! He’s the most wonderful, good-natured, hardworking man in the world! It would take a hundred idle, rich playboys like Jeff Blaine to fill his shoes! You have no right to tear him apart this way!”
Lori put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I’m not tearing him apart. I like Stuart too. And I know he’ll make someone a wonderful husband. But not you, Chels. You need somebody a lot stronger, a lot more masterful.”
“Masterful? You sound like you’ve been reading too many Gothic romances.” Chelsea jerked away angrily. “I don’t need any advice from you, big sister. I can handle my own life.” She snatched a paper towel from the roll and wiped her eyes. “Where are the waiters? We should start serving the hors d’oeuvres.”
The wedding reception went smoothly. The tiny ham and cheese croissants were a big hit; the bridal cake was described by several guests as stunning; the salmon gravlax was the most delicate the bride’s mother had ever tasted. By the time the dancing began, the waiters were already circulating with their fourth round of Roquefort grapes. Lori took a break and went to rest on the couch in the little sitting room off the kitchen. Chelsea was setting out another platter of chocolate petits fours when one of the waiters hurried into the kitchen.
“They’re calling for the chef,” he told Chelsea. “The bridal couple wants to toast you.” He grabbed Chelsea’s arm and pulled her through the swinging door into the dining room.
“To the chef!” cried the groom from the far end of the room, where the dance floor had been established. He lifted a wineglass toward Chelsea. The music stopped and everyone in the room turned to face her. The applause was deafening.
She caught a glimpse of Jeff, standing in back of the groom and she knew she was blushing even before he smiled at her. She bowed and tried to slip quickly back into the safety of the kitchen, but the groom’s voice stopped her. “Let’s have a dance in her honor.” He turned to the band leader. “A waltz, please.”
The leader nodded. Chelsea saw the groom take the bride’s hand and tilt his head briefly to speak to Jeff. Then she watched with growing alarm as Jeff crossed the floor to her.
“May I have this dance?” He bowed and held out his arm. “At the groom’s request.”
She couldn’t do anything but accept, not with so many people watching. As Jeff led her onto the dance floor, Chelsea experienced such a violent trembling in the base of her spine that she was afraid her knees would buckle. Jeff swept her gracefully into his arms the instant before she collapsed. And suddenly she was in paradise.
She’d never experienced anything like it. She’d danced before; she loved to dance; she and Stuart often went dancing in Portland on Saturday nights. Though Stuart wasn’t an expert, he was a competent dancer, and she’d always liked the harmonious movement of their bodies in time to music. But it was nothing like this.
This was magic; this was bliss; this was pure, unadulterated ecstasy. She felt as if she were soaring, floating above the floor in Jeff’s strong arms. The music was in her and around her simultaneously; she was one with it. All the panic and anger and anxiety of the past few days vanished completely. She closed her eyes and leaned her head lightly against his broad shoulder. She felt his arm tighten around her in response and, in one tiny part of her brain, knew she’d made a mistake, that she shouldn’t have moved closer to him, but she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t in control anymore; she was being controlled. By the amazing, masterful dancing of Jeff Blaine.
She didn’t even realize the waltz had ended until he gently pulled away from her.
“Oh.” She took a step backward and felt suddenly dizzy. When she glanced up at him, she saw that he was gazing at her. Their eyes locked and the dizzy sensation increased. She was vaguely aware that another waltz had begun, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away
from Jeff’s. She took another step backward, bumped into someone and stumbled on the heel of her left pump. She reached for Jeff to steady herself. It was an involuntary, reflex action, but when she straightened and started to turn away, he didn’t release her hand.
“Another dance?” Without waiting for her answer, he pulled her into his arms. Again she was instantly transported, aware only of the warmth of his hard body pressing against hers, the scent of his cologne in her nostrils, the pressure of his hand on her back. When the dance ended, he led her back to the kitchen door.
She looked up at him and tried to smile. “Thanks.”
“Thank you.” He took a strawberry from the basket beside the door and bit into it. For some reason, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She watched the tip of his tongue emerge and lick away a smear of strawberry juice from his lower lip. Then, without averting his gaze, he picked up another strawberry and lifted it to her mouth.
Her lips opened automatically to receive the fruit. It wasn’t until she bit into the sweet, red flesh that she grasped the sexual overtones of his gesture. She glanced up at him again, saw the same knowledge reflected in his eyes, and spit the remains of the strawberry into her hand.
Her cheeks blazed. “I have to get back to work,” she croaked, and fled into the kitchen.
She was standing at the sink, furiously scrubbing a cake pan, when the kitchen door swung open a few minutes later. For a heart-stopping moment she was afraid that Jeff had followed her into the kitchen, but when she looked up, she saw it wasn’t Jeff, but his mother.
Chelsea dropped her pan back into the dishwater. “Can I help you, Mrs. Winter?” She tried to make her voice sound even and controlled. “Are you looking for someone?”
“Yes,” came the answer, in the same icy tone Chelsea remembered from her other brief encounters. “I’m looking for you.”
Chelsea dried her hands on a towel hanging over the sink. “What can I do for you?”
Muriel took a step into the kitchen, swayed, and caught the edge of the counter to steady herself. Chelsea pulled one of the kitchen’s tall stools over to the older woman. “Is something wrong with the food?”
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