Sliding onto a bar stool, he ordered a whiskey. Across the room, pool balls clacked at the three tables sitting in a row. Men crowded near the tables, with babes roaming the perimeter in clingy tops, sipping fruit drinks in tall glasses. Checking out the women, he searched for one that looked like she had a good job. He’d spend the night at her place, clean out her wallet before sunup, and slip out.
The bartender was setting down his second whiskey when George noticed a heavily made-up woman in too-tight jeans. Listing against the wall, she nursed a drink alone. Early forties, trying to look ten years younger—she had nice hair and an even nicer purse falling open on her shoulder. From the looks of it, she’d already drunk too much.
George kept up the steady gaze until she finally caught on. She did a double take. Pushing her bangs off her brow, she seemed unsure if the come-on was meant for her. Another drink or two, and she’d swear George Clooney’s twin was escorting her home for the night.
Which suited him fine.
Chapter 11
Pulling into the lot, Ryan wondered if he’d left his more pragmatic sensibilities at home.
With dawn an hour off, the air held a chill that had him scrubbing at the sleeves of the lightweight polo shirt he’d donned before slipping out of the house. Lights blazed from the Wayfair’s lobby, the shafts of gold barely denting the darkness. Plodding through the shadows, he skirted cars to the stone walkway. At the top of the veranda’s steps, indecision gripped him.
Go inside, or wait until a respectable hour before making his presence known?
The choices narrowed to one as the brunette at the front desk spotted him. Lowering her magazine, she gave a cautious wave.
With a sheepish grin, he went inside.
“Mr. D’Angelo, hi.” She gave the clock a cursory glance. “You’re here to see Cat?”
“I am, but I’m early.” Embarrassed, he started over. “Not early, precisely. I am here to see her.”
“For a meeting?”
“More like a social visit.”
She reached for the phone. “Let me call up.”
“Don’t wake her.” He nodded toward the veranda, conscious of the jitters barreling into his chest. “I’ll take in the sunrise. Mind if I wait outside?”
“She might sleep in.”
“Does she usually sleep late on Saturday?”
“Sometimes.”
A tough break, especially since he needed a strong cup of coffee. “Then I’ll continue to wait.” He should’ve packed a thermos before hitting the road.
He slipped outside with the full extent of his impetuous behavior notching up his adrenaline. To hell with the coffee. Packing a flask of scotch would’ve made more sense.
He was mulling over the wisdom of sneaking into the Sunshine Room’s bar when the door creaked open. Contrary to his request, the girl had followed her own judgment.
Cat tiptoed onto the veranda, cinching her robe. “Ryan, what are you doing here?”
She caught him leaning over the railing in a vain attempt to decipher the sounds drifting from the vicinity of the lake. “Interesting question,” he remarked, feeling foolish. “Will you give me a sec? I don’t have a reason yet.” He couldn’t decide if the sounds were animal or human.
“This is a spur-of-the-moment visit?”
“Essentially.” Her hair was charmingly mussed, her features still glowing from sleep. “Forget the glam looks. You’ll never beat this one.”
“You’re crazy. I look awful.”
“You look sexy. Warm, approachable—what’s under the robe? Mind allowing a peek?”
“And disappoint you? I’m wearing boring pj’s, nothing exotic.” She stifled a yawn.
“Nothing boring about pj’s on a sexy woman.”
He took hold of the robe’s sash with the intention of drawing her near. Her lips parted in sweet anticipation. Then her eyes cleared. She shook off the last vestiges of sleep.
She stepped back, and the rejection struck him hard. It was no more than his due. From the day they’d first met, he’d been sending mixed signals.
“Ryan, seriously. What are you doing here on the weekend?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“So you jumped in your car? Other people try meditation, or sleeping pills.”
He was a novice at sharing his emotions, but he tried now. “I couldn’t sleep because of you. I figured I might as well stop by.”
Eyes lowered, she smoothed her hands down her thighs. At last she stepped closer to feather light fingertips across his jaw. “What about your mother? She’s been awfully worried lately. Doesn’t she deserve to spend Saturday with her son? It’s not like she sees much of you during the week, with all the time you’ve been spending in Sweet Lake.”
“I’d planned to spend the day with her. Turns out she’s got a full agenda.” Cat’s tentative caresses seemed an invitation. He inclined his head slightly to rub his nose across the smooth skin of her brow. She shivered, her response thrilling. “You’re not wearing perfume.” It was a first.
“Who wears perfume to bed?”
“Hey, I love the stuff you wear. Merely pointing out your natural scent’s better.”
The compliment barely dented her stern regard. “You were explaining about your mother.”
“Every year, she goes on a sewing binge in October.”
“Sewing her fall wardrobe? Some of the Sirens make quilts. I’ve never met a woman with the time or the talent to sew her own clothes.”
“She’s not that ambitious.” He fondled the heavy locks of Cat’s hair, arranging the gleaming lengths around her shoulders. He toyed with the idea of stealing a kiss.
The idea was dismissed as she lowered her hand from his jaw. “Your mother has been anxious for weeks. She’s all right by herself on a Saturday?”
“Not by herself, and happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. She’s spending the day sewing Halloween costumes.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans to ward off the temptation of drawing Cat near. “There are lots of families on our street, and she loves helping the mothers sew costumes for their kids. I’d planned to take her out today, catch a sappy movie at the theater—she loves sappy movies—then grab dinner at a restaurant afterward. Last night I got home to find the living room buried in stacks of fabric, and my mother organizing patterns on the dining room table.”
“It’s nearly daybreak. What’ll she do when she wakes up to an empty house?”
“I left a note, said I’d gone to see a girl.”
The simple truth crowded her features with doubt. “We’re spending the day together?”
He didn’t like the worry collecting in her eyes. An understandable reaction, since he’d repeatedly battled the same doubts: Why risk deepening their attraction unless they found a way to have a future together?
Yet he’d followed his heart to Sweet Lake regardless.
Taking a gamble, he said, “We’re probably thinking the same thing. Not much sense in starting a relationship unless there’s a chance of building something together. I don’t have an easy solution; I don’t have any of the answers, not yet. I can tell you this: I’ve spent most of my life feeling like there’s a wound inside me, one I’ll never heal. Being with you makes me feel whole. How can I give you up without giving this my best shot?”
The hastily composed speech was too much, too soon. Ryan saw her expression change, felt her withdraw slightly. “I’m not pushing you,” he said, desperate to ensure he wasn’t pushing her away. “Just being honest.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” Cat admitted.
“I didn’t mean to come on so strong.”
“You didn’t, Ryan. I appreciate your honesty.”
He was intent on pressing his case when the murmur of voices rolled across the lawn. Above the forest, the first traces of sunlight revealed the bold autumn foliage.
“Who’s down by the lake?” Curious, he looked out over the railing. “You don’t have guests on the be
ach, do you? Too chilly for camping out.”
The question seemed to rescue her from the emotional pressure he’d put her under. “Tell you what,” she said, taking him by the hand and leading him inside the inn. “Grab something for us in the kitchen while I run upstairs to dress. You can raid Ellis’s larder before he comes in with the morning staff.”
“Who’s Ellis?” The Wayfair employed fifty people, and the name wasn’t familiar.
“The day cook.” Nodding at the girl stationed behind the front desk, she started down the corridor near the ballroom. From over her shoulder, she added, “According to the women in housekeeping, Ellis is our resident hot body. Since you’ve been showing up, he has competition.”
The remark quelled a portion of his anxiety. “I’m a hot body?” Not the worst nickname, especially if Cat agreed.
“As if you don’t know.” Leading him into the kitchen, she flicked on the lights. “Check the counter over there for pastries. There’s fruit in the fridge.” She opened a drawer, handed him a bag.
“We’re going on a picnic?”
She smiled, and it was a relief when the last of the worry left her features. “If we don’t lie low during this little excursion, we’re in trouble.”
He began asking for clarification, but she’d already darted out. In record time, she reappeared in jeans and a light sweater deliciously molded to her curves. They went out back and rounded the side of the inn.
“Why are we staying out of sight?” He followed her through the parking lot. “Are we spying on someone?”
“You’ll see.”
He stumbled on a rock hidden in the gloom. “Can I get a few more specifics?”
She chuckled. “Geez, you’re a worrywart. Let the moment unfold in its own sweet time. You’ll get a kick out of this, promise.”
Clearing the parking lot, she went across the lawn. The sun peered out from above the tree line. Dew glistened on the grass like raindrops, suspended on a million emerald blades. The moment held a magical quality, like something out of a dream. Ryan focused on appreciating the surroundings as the familiar panic jolted him.
From the bag he’d packed, Cat withdrew a Danish pastry. She took a quick bite. At a clump of bushes forming a barrier between the lawn and the beach, she drew him to a standstill. The noise grew in strength, a repetitive hum reminiscent of singing.
“Stay low.” She stuffed the pastry back into the bag. “If they see us, I’ll never get out of hot water.” She jogged left, to a larger clump of shrubs.
Ten paces from the surf, a group of women stood in shadows the advancing day was quickly flinging away. Eyes shut, they clasped hands. The Sirens, presumably, and Ryan scanned the group with interest. He spotted Ruth, her wrinkled face scrunched with concentration. Finding Cat’s mother was a simple task. She possessed the same arresting features as her daughter, with a softly rounded build.
He arched a brow. “What’s with the headgear?” Like the others, Silvia Mendoza wore an elaborate headband festooned with feathers in vibrant pinks, greens, and yellows.
“The Sirens make ceremonial garb for their rituals.”
“What are they doing?” He counted eighteen women.
“Gathering positive energy from the new day. They do this once or twice a week. Not in the dead of winter, though. In January, they hold most of their rituals in Sweet Lake Circle. The temps get pretty nippy by the lake.”
“They’re all Sweet Lake Sirens?”
“Every last one.” Cat ducked lower, pulled him down beside her. Together they peered through the bushes. “This isn’t the whole group.”
“Where’s the rest of their merry band?”
“Sleeping in, getting ready for work—how should I know? They show up if they have time.”
A ticklish sensation darted up Ryan’s spine. The feathers on the headbands were twined with small stones and tiny shells that fell around the women’s heads like a sprinkling of pearls. The overall design reminded him of the gift Cat had given him.
Retrieving the keepsake from his pocket, he held it out. “Your mother taught you how to make these?”
“Way back in childhood. My older sister, Val, never had much interest in learning about the Sirens’ practices, but I was always fascinated with the idea that the natural world is inherently feminine, and women have the ability to connect into that nurturing spirit. I began helping Frances and my mother forage in the woods for the right stones, and scavenging the beach for the prettiest shells to use in their tokens, before I entered kindergarten. The feathers were the hardest to find, especially in the autumn once many of the birds had flown south.” She regarded him with satisfaction. “I’m glad you keep the token with you.”
“Cat, I’ve seen something like this before. The feathers weren’t silver and gold. Purple, maybe, or blue.” The inability to remember had plagued him since she’d presented the gift. The keepsake was important, a mystery he needed to solve. “How long has your mother been making these?”
“Since she founded the Sirens with Frances. I’m sure the design is original, something they came up with together. They also came up with all of the Sirens’ rituals together, mostly from their opinions regarding feminine wisdom and the like. You’re sure you’ve seen a token before? I can’t imagine how you came across one.”
“I’m positive.”
On the beach the women’s humming grew louder, and Cat and Ryan brought their hushed conversation to a close. The women’s locked hands lifted into the air. The soft drone of mingled voices calmed the drumbeat of Ryan’s heart. His eyelids grew heavy.
A rustling at his side snapped him out of his doze. Before Cat could take another bite, he swiped the Danish and wolfed it down.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Hungry.”
“I hope you packed more than one pastry.”
“Two Danish, plus an apple and an orange.” He forced his attention due west, to the forest.
She found the apple, studied him appraisingly. “How are you doing? Should we turn back?”
The sun broke free of the horizon, sending purplish ribbons of light across the beach. “I’m fine.” The panic darting through his chest was manageable. His legs were another matter, the muscles burning from hunkering down to remain hidden. “The great outdoors isn’t the real problem. I associate open spaces with my father.”
“If we keep talking about your past, you’ll get past your nerves,” Cat said, her voice laced with hope. “I mean, I know it’s hard. But you can try.”
“I want to.”
“Whenever you’re ready, I’m here for you.”
“Yesterday was a good start.” He took in a lungful of the pine-scented air, frowned. A trace of worry returned to Cat’s brow, and he didn’t relish the prospect of being coddled. “Want to test a theory, see if I survive?”
He posed the question lightly, in part because the sight of grown women in feathered headbands tickled him, but also because the dawn cresting above the treetops was breathtaking, nearly as soul stirring as the woman regarding him with wary suspicion.
“I’m afraid to ask.” Cat dropped the apple back into the bag. “What’s your theory?”
A path edging the beach led into the forest. If they kept low, they’d avoid detection by the Sirens. He started down it.
“Hold on,” she hissed from behind. “We should test your theory on a lab rat first.”
Following a band of sunlight into the trees, he winked at her. “No guts, no glory.”
At a steady pace he entered the forest, assessing his emotions along the way. Fear, nausea, and the predictable instinct to flee—nothing a red-blooded male couldn’t handle.
Cat tossed their bag of goodies beneath a tree. Catching up, she pulled him to a halt. “You’re sweating.” She took a concerned swipe at his cheek.
“I have goose bumps.”
“I’ll reserve the ghost stories for a later date.”
Catching the mirth in her eyes, he flicked her nose. “I knew I could
count on you.” He walked past. “Come on.”
“You want to keep going?”
“Sure.” He took three steps before stopping in astonishment. “My God. I had no idea.”
Missing entirely was the deep, empty stillness he associated with a forest. In the leaves rustling far above their heads, a melodious chorus from unseen birds rained down. Bright calls and sharp chirps, sweet warbling and low trills—the birds sang with a vibrancy that was exhilarating.
Cat followed his attention skyward. “Cool, huh?”
“How long will this last?”
“A while yet. They sing like this every morning. They’re welcoming the day, just like the Sirens.”
“This is better than listening to the orchestra at the Taft in Cincinnati.” He still felt panicky, but the birdsong spinning around him lessened his tension.
“Want to see something else? Less magnificent, but good.”
He nodded, and she ducked onto a secondary path, hurrying past a ravine with gurgling waters rising from the dense shade. Moss blanketed the ground, the emerald carpet cushioning his long strides. They entered a small clearing.
Shafts of sunlight banded across a magnificent oak tree with a trunk thicker than three men. One ponderous limb grew at a nearly perfect ninety-degree angle. A charming tree house nestled in the nook where the limb met the sturdy trunk. Impressed, Ryan noted the fresh coat of pale-yellow paint on the structure and a rope ladder dangling from the doorway. Evidently the owner cared enough about the tree to avoid nailing the ladder into the trunk.
He studied her with interest. “Is this yours?” Given her nature-girl tendencies, keeping a tree house into adulthood wasn’t surprising.
“Don’t I wish. I do steal a few minutes out here, whenever I get the chance.” Approaching, she smoothed her fingers across the knotty bark. “Linnie has an older brother. Freddie owns a film studio in California, Bad Seed Productions. B movies with bizarre plots. This place is his.”
“Freddie built the tree house?”
“When he was a kid. You can see the place got a recent upgrade.”
The Comfort of Secrets (A Sweet Lake Novel Book 2) Page 12