Strawberry Lace

by Amy Belding Brown

  Muriel frowned and imperiously waved away the stool. “The food is fine. Wonderful, in fact. This has nothing to do with food.” She tried to straighten her shoulders, but her right arm still clutched the counter for balance.

  Chelsea kept her smile pasted on, hoping that it might soften Muriel’s glare, while she waited for the woman to speak. She was obviously furious about something; Muriel’s intense blue eyes looked like they were trying to bore a hole through her skull.

  “It’s about my son,” Muriel said. “I saw Jefferson dance with you.”

  “Yes. It was at the request of the groom.”

  “I realize that.” She groped for a stronger purchase on the counter edge. “But I saw the way he looked at you. I want to make something plain to you, Miss Adams. My son is not available to you, or to anyone in your social station. Is that clear?”

  Chelsea stared at her. The woman had incredible audacity. And apparently a vivid imagination to go along with it. She straightened her shoulders. “I’m not interested in your son, Mrs. Winter. Except as a client.”

  Muriel raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m not a stupid woman, Miss Adams. I saw the looks that passed between you.”

  “I’m afraid you were mistaken. It may interest you to know, Mrs. Winter, that I’ve recently become engaged. I guarantee there’s nothing between me and Jeff.”

  “As long as you understand my meaning, Miss Adams. If Jefferson were to become romantically involved with you, the consequences to your catering business would be devastating, I can assure you.” She swayed forward; Chelsea wasn’t certain if the movement was deliberate or not, but it was distinctly menacing.

  “Thank you for your warning.” Chelsea’s own voice was icy. “If there’s nothing else you wish to discuss, I’ll get back to my work.”

  “One more thing.” Muriel raised a bony index finger. “I want you to know that my cancellation of the Independence Day affair had nothing to do with the competence of Strawberry Lace. As long as you heed my warning, I will consider recommending you to my friends. The hors d’oeuvres today were delicious.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

  Muriel turned to leave, and Chelsea hurried back to the sink. She had to push her hands down into the warm, soapy water and hold them there for a long time before they stopped shaking.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chelsea was seething as she finished washing the cake pans and slammed them into their box. She felt as if she’d just been clubbed. Muriel clearly hadn’t believed her when she said she had no interest in Jeff. The woman was unwilling to let go of her two adult sons, and paranoid of any woman who came within two feet of them. There was only one word for a woman like Muriel, and it was a word Chelsea rarely used, but it fit so perfectly in this case that she said it aloud as she rinsed silverware under hot water.

  She had planned to tell Lori about Muriel’s intimidating warning, but when she saw the exhaustion on her sister’s face as she came out of the sitting room, she decided against it. Lori’s cheeks were pale, her eyes puffy with fatigue, and she looked like she could easily sleep for a week.

  “Why don’t you go home, sis? I can handle the clean-up. I’ll grab a couple of waiters, pay them overtime.”

  “We can’t afford that.” Lori shook her head and picked up a stack of empty trays. “Besides, I promised I’d do my share until the baby comes.”

  “That was before you knew how much pregnancy takes out of you. I don’t want you pushing yourself. It’s not good for you, and I’m sure it’s not good for the baby.”

  Lori sighed. “Maybe you’re right. It seems like I’m tired all the time lately. Are you sure you don’t mind if I take off?”

  “It was my idea,” Chelsea reminded her. “Now go before I get nasty.” She gave her a mock scowl.

  “Thanks a million. I owe you.”

  “Just consider it as payment for sitting in on the arrangements with Jeff.”

  “I’ll do that.” Lori pulled on her sweater and slipped out the back door.

  Chelsea felt a wave of satisfying warmth. It was good to be the giver for a change. Usually Lori was the generous one, so quick to help, charitable to a fault. She’d give you the shirt off her back. It was about time she did a little receiving.

  She spoke to two of the waiters, who agreed to help with the clean-up at the regular rate. After all the guests left, the three of them washed dishes, took apart the elaborate bridal decorations, collected the flowers for distribution to area nursing homes, and oversaw the disassembly of the tent. Chelsea sublimated her raging anger at Muriel Winter into her work and they finished earlier than she expected. By nine-thirty she was driving back to her apartment to unload the van. But her furious pace had taken more out of her than she realized. By the time everything was put away and both the shop and van were locked up, she was almost stumbling with fatigue.

  She took off her heels and climbed the stairs to her apartment, her left hand holding the shoes, her right stuck deep in her purse, searching for her key. At the top, she stopped to peer into the dark vinyl bag. She didn’t see the white, rectangular box in front of her door until she stepped on it. She lost her balance and almost fell, only saving herself by grabbing the railing. Her shoes fell down the stairs with a clatter.

  “Damn!” Why would anyone leave a box at the top of the stairs? The mailman always slid her mail into the wide slot in the door at the bottom of the stairs. The box wasn’t too big for that. It looked like a clothing gift box. She bent and picked it up. There was no name on it, no address. She could only assume that someone had placed it at her door by accident, thinking it was someone else’s apartment.

  She retrieved her heels, found her key, and let herself in. She picked up the crushed package and took it into the kitchen, flicked on the light and turned the box over. A small card was taped onto the bottom. Her name was written on it in handsomely slanted script.

  She detached the card and stared down at it. She didn’t recognize the handwriting. It obviously wasn’t from anybody she knew, but it was definitely for her. She opened it slowly, a strange feeling of dread filling her chest.

  It was a thank-you card. On the cover, a wash of rainbow watercolors was the background for the words thank you in casual black calligraphy. Inside, a short note in the same attractive penmanship read: I know you can put this to good use. Thanks for the dance.

  It was from Jeff. It had to be. Who else had she danced with besides Stuart in the past five years?

  She dropped the card onto the table. Her hands were shaking as she opened the box, which was sealed with short strips of tape. She lifted the cover, unfolded a blanket of white tissue paper and gasped in surprise.

  She touched the teal-blue velour with trembling fingers. It was the bathrobe she had admired at the mall three weeks ago. The seventy-dollar bathrobe! She lifted it out and held it up in front of her. It was gorgeous, more beautiful than she’d remembered. It had a long zipper and a lime-green satin ribbon that tied at the neck. The sleeve cuffs were banded in matching satin. She closed her eyes and pinched herself, to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, but when she opened them again, she was still holding the robe.

  She spotted the card and flushed as she remembered her embarrassment when Jeff had caught her wearing her father’s old bathrobe. But how had he known this was the robe she wanted? And more important, what was his motivation for giving it to her?

  She placed the robe back in its box and gazed down at it. Her mind somersaulted back to what she had been deliberately avoiding all evening: the dance. She had a sudden, vivid memory of herself in Jeff’s arms, spinning to the sweet rhythm of the waltz. She’d never taken drugs, but she imagined that they must feel something like what she had felt then. Just remembering it opened a deep yearning inside her. She wanted to experience the dance again; she wanted to be in Jeff’s arms again. Forever.

  She abruptly cut off her thoughts. This was ridiculous. It was her fatigue talking, nothing more. She loved Stuart.
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  She folded the robe and placed it back inside its box. She couldn’t keep it, that was clear. In the morning she would call Jeff and tell him she appreciated the thought, but couldn’t accept the bathrobe. And she would remind him again that she was engaged.

  She remembered the meeting with Jeff and Lori even before she saw it on her calendar the next morning. She wondered why it had slipped her mind last night. It was the perfect opportunity to return the bathrobe to Jeff.

  She dressed in a knit blouse and green cotton jumper and was waiting in the shop when Lori drove up. The first thing Lori did when she entered the shop was point to the box sitting on the display counter.

  “What’s that?”

  “A mistake.” Chelsea looked up from the itemized bill she was writing at the desk. “Go ahead, take a look, if you want.”

  Lori lifted the cover of the box. “It’s beautiful! And it’s in your color.”

  “Yes, I’ve had my eye on that robe for weeks.”

  “Then what do you mean, a mistake?”

  “It’s not mine.” Chelsea stacked the invoice sheets in a neat pile and stood up. “It belongs to Jeff.”

  Lori laughed. “Don’t be silly. It’s a woman’s robe.” Her eyes widened as she comprehended Chelsea’s meaning. “You mean he gave it to you?”

  Chelsea nodded.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “There isn’t any. It was waiting for me when I got home last night. He must have gone to the mall and bought it after the reception.”

  Lori’s grin broadened. “Looks like you’ve hooked a rather impressive fish, Chels. Congratulations.”

  “I haven’t hooked anything!” Chelsea reached over and jammed the cover back down onto the box. “I’m giving it back to him when he comes this morning.”

  “You’re kidding! It’s gorgeous!”

  “I can’t accept a gift like that. We’re not just talking a box of chocolates, you know. That robe cost seventy dollars!”

  “I think you’re making too much out of this. It’s just a bathrobe. For a man like Jeff Blaine, seventy dollars is pocket change.”

  Chelsea set her jaw. “I’m giving it back anyway.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal. It’s not a diamond necklace or anything. But I guess you have to do what you have to do.”

  “That’s right. I don’t want Stuart to be jealous.”

  Lori laughed. “Stuart doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body, and you know it.”

  “Our relationship’s changed, Lori. I told you that.”

  “Whatever you say. Well, get ready. Here comes Mr. Handsome now.”

  Chelsea’s stomach lurched violently as the shop door chimed open and Jeff walked in. It was all she could do to pick up the box.

  “I see you got the robe.” He was smiling, that same breathtaking smile he’d worn when she first met him.

  “Jeff, I can’t . . .” She clutched the box in both hands. “You have to return it.”

  “What’s the matter? Doesn’t it fit?”

  “Yes, but I . . . can’t accept it.” She felt so stupid, standing there under his dark gaze, fumbling for words. It wasn’t like her to be tongue-tied.

  “Why not? You needed a new bathrobe. I had a few extra bucks. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s just not appropriate. I mean . . . I’m engaged.” She was intensely aware of Lori’s amusement. Her sister was doing everything she could to keep from laughing.

  “So, it’s an engagement present.” Abruptly, he reached over and covered her hand with his, right there on the box. “Keep it, with my congratulations.”

  She glanced quickly at Lori, who was giving her a look that said, What did I tell you? She sighed and gave up. Her sister was right. What was the harm in keeping a bathrobe that in Jeff’s eyes probably involved about as much financial sacrifice as a pack of chewing gum did for her? He had acknowledged her engagement. It didn’t appear that he was using the gift to try to woo her away from Stuart. She took a deep breath and smiled at him. “Well, thank you. It’s lovely.”

  “I thought so.”

  Lori sat down on the love seat. “I’m curious how you picked it, Jeff. Did you know that Chelsea’s had her eye on this particular robe?”

  He shook his head. “It just looked like something she should have.” His dark eyes slid toward Chelsea and he smiled.

  “Well, let’s get down to business,” Chelsea said quickly. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  She was distinctly uncomfortable through the whole meeting, even though it ran as smoothly as the last. It wasn’t just that she still felt confused about the gift, or about Lori’s reaction to it. It was the fact that Jeff’s gaze rarely left her face, although Lori did most of the talking. He would glance only briefly at the papers set in front of him, then his eyes would settle again on her, as if drawn there by a powerful magnet. She felt her cheeks growing pinker and pinker as time passed, until she was sure they were flaming crimson.

  She was surprised when, after Jeff left, Lori didn’t admit to being aware of the fact that he’d been watching her.

  “How could you have missed it? He was staring at me the whole time!”

  “I think your imagination’s running away with you, Chels.” Lori smiled, the condescending, big-sister smile that Chelsea had always hated. Then she delivered her coup de grace. “Anyway, how did you know he was looking at you all the time, unless you were looking at him?”

  Chelsea felt exhausted after the one-hour meeting, as if she’d just been through a marathon planning session with a big Portland hotel. After Lori left, instead of getting to work on filling out orders, she drifted around the shop for a while. She checked the whereabouts of the various utensils they’d need for party preparation, and then decided to take the afternoon off. She deserved a break after yesterday’s wedding. And she needed to get away, go where she didn’t recognize any faces, where no one would recognize her.

  The weather was cool and sunny, a good day for hiking. An hour later, dressed in her cut-off jeans and I LOVE MAINE T-shirt, she headed up the coast to the bird sanctuary. It was a wonderful place to walk, and not many people frequented it. She wasn’t much of a bird watcher, but she did like seeing the ospreys and cormorants in the tidal marshes.

  The tide was coming in, bringing the water close to the edges of the path in some places. A light breeze bent the tops of the tall marsh grass, while small birds swooped and dived into its thick, silver-green shelter. As she walked, Chelsea felt her tension melting away. Lori, she realized, had been right about the robe. It was no big deal, especially not to a man like Jeff Blaine. The rich, she knew, lived unconventionally, had unusual values. Money separated you, made you different. She sighed. She wouldn’t mind being rich herself. The constant struggle to make ends meet wore her down. But things were starting to look up. Once Muriel Winter started recommending Strawberry Lace to her friends—if she did—their troubles would be over.

  She was walking down a steep trail between thick beds of marsh grass when she slipped on a patch of mud. She felt her left knee strike something hard as she went down, but the only pain she noticed was the sharp jolt in her right wrist as her outstretched hands smashed heavily to the ground. She hauled herself back to her feet and examined her wrist. It was already swelling. She sighed, berating herself for her clumsiness; she had no choice but to abandon the hike and go home. The sooner she packed it in ice, the better. With a little luck, the swelling would go down and the injury wouldn’t hamper her work. She started back along the trail, and realized immediately that she’d injured her knee as well.

  The pain wasn’t much more than a dull ache, but the joint was stiff and awkward. She took a deep breath and forced down the alarm that rose in her. It wouldn’t do any good to panic; it would just slow her down. At the rate she was going, it would take her a good hour to get back to the car. She headed up the path, doggedly limping along, doing what she could to take the stress off her knee
. She was entering a long stretch of woods when she heard the voices. She couldn’t see the source, but it sounded like a man and woman. A few minutes later, in the dimly lit distance of the shaded trees, two figures emerged from the far side of a boulder.

  A sudden thump in her chest made Chelsea catch her breath. Even at this distance and in the shadowy light, she recognized Jeff Blaine and Beth Harmon.

  “Hey!” She waved her arms eagerly. “Over here! I need help!”

  Jeff came running. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my knee. I fell and hurt it somehow.”

  He squatted in front of her, probing her knee with gentle fingers. She winced as a sharp pain jolted her leg.

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, sort of.”

  He stood up. “Show me.”

  She took a few lopsided steps along the path, aware of his intense scrutiny.

  “It looks like it’s uncomfortable, but not unstable. You’re obviously able to put some weight on it.”

  She nodded.

  He bent again to run his fingers along the inside of her knee. “I think you’ve probably pulled the medial tarsal ligament.”

  “Medial tar—what?”

  He ignored her question and straightened, frowning. “You must have taken quite a tumble. Does anything else hurt?”

  “Just my wrist.” She held out her arm. He cradled her wrist in his left hand while he examined it with his right.

  He whistled softly. “I don’t think this is your lucky day, Chelsea. This is a pretty bad sprain.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “We need to get both of them packed in ice as quickly as possible.” He turned to Beth, who was dressed in khaki slacks and a knit blouse, her attractive face lined with concern. “Looks like you and I are going to have to serve as crutches today. Are you up to it?”

  Beth nodded.

  “I can walk,” Chelsea protested.

  “Not if you have any intention of recovering quickly,” Jeff said curtly. He and Beth quickly linked arms around Chelsea’s back and they started along the path.