by Hope Ramsay
When the silence stretched out for several long heartbeats, he asked, “But what?”
“I don’t think we should do it again.”
She was right, of course. But he wanted to do it again. Hell, he’d hoped to do it again before dawn. “What about our plans for this evening?” he asked.
“What plans…Oh, you mean the picnic?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s no reason to cancel that. I mean, you wanted to check out the beach, right? Or do you want to concede the point and agree to a beach party?”
He squeezed the steering wheel. He should probably concede the point, but he didn’t want to. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
Chapter Sixteen
What had Ella been thinking?
She’d gone to bed with Dylan, and now she was foolishly trying to prove something to him with this damn picnic. She should have picked up the phone and called Annie Robinson the moment she read Granny’s fried chicken recipe and realized that she didn’t have the first clue how to actually fry a chicken.
She should have gotten this damn picnic catered.
But no. Some stupid part of her female brain wanted to cook for Dylan, when she knew good and well that whatever had happened last night was over. Done. Never going to happen again.
So here she stood in Ashley’s kitchen, feeling a little sleepy, working up the courage to fry the chicken she’d bought at Miller’s Market but also boiling potatoes for homemade potato salad while getting ready to chop cabbage into slaw.
She was on the brink of making a total hash out of it when Jackie came sailing through the front door wearing his school uniform, which consisted of navy-blue pants and a white polo shirt with a stain on the front that might have come from ketchup. He hopped up onto one of the kitchen stools, planted his face in his hands, and asked, “Whatcha doing?”
She needed the kid like she needed a hole in the head. “Making coleslaw.”
“Why?”
“I’m going on a picnic tonight.”
The kid hopped down from his stool and headed to the gigantic Sub-Zero refrigerator, where he pulled out a can of diet Coke. Then he strolled over to the stove. “Your pot’s about to boil over.”
“Oh, yikes.” Ella turned and reduced the heat on the potatoes.
“I think they’re done,” Jackie said. “Maybe overdone.”
She turned the heat off. The potatoes did look a bit overboiled, which would have been great if she was making mashed potatoes. Well, better overdone than underdone.
She drained the potatoes into a colander and went back to chopping cabbage.
“The captain likes your music,” Jackie said, returning to the stool, where he eyed her every move like a hawk. The kid had probably watched his mother for years, but when Ashley entered her kitchen, she was like a captain of a great ocean liner, totally confident and in charge. Ella was neither of those things.
“I’m glad the captain likes my music,” she said to the kid, while she measured out mayo and mustard.
“So when are you going to go out to the tree and play the violin for him again?”
She looked up at the kid. “The captain could come in on Saturdays if he wants to hear me play.”
“I don’t think he can leave the tree…” Jackie paused. “Well, not unless it’s super important. He was able to go to the library once, but that was important to him. Music, maybe not. He says you should play more jigs and reels and less of that sad stuff. He doesn’t like sad stuff.”
“And everyone’s a critic,” she muttered as she poured some vinegar into the coleslaw dressing.
“Jackie?” Ashley’s voice came from up the back stairway.
The kid turned on his stool. “Hi, Mom,” he said in a perfectly angelic voice.
Ashley entered the kitchen and gave him a motherly look. “Stop bothering Ella. It looks as if she’s busy right now.”
“Okay.” He slipped from the stool, picked up his book bag and soda can, and headed for the stairs, but before he got to the first step, he turned. “You should come out to the tree and play some jigs and reels. It would cheer him up.” Then he turned and raced up the stairs, ignoring his mother’s frown.
Ashley turned around. “I’m sorry he was bothering you.”
“He wasn’t,” Ella said, eyeing the slightly mushy potatoes. “I think I was managing to screw this up well before he arrived.”
“What’s the occasion?”
Ella’s face flamed hot. Ashley had already given Ella one serious woman-to-woman talk about Dylan Killough. Had she heard her come in at three o’clock this morning? Had she seen Dylan’s car in the drive? And now here she was making a picnic for him. It wouldn’t take a genius to connect the dots. But she couldn’t flat-out lie about things. She just had to spin the truth the way they did in Washington these days.
“Well, you know Mom has asked Dylan and me to plan an engagement party for her and Jim, so I’m trying to prove that a picnic on the beach would be perfect. Dylan is skeptical. And I have this feeling that I’m not going to win him over to my point of view when he sees this mess. Granny told me the way to convince him was with excellent food. This is going to be an epic fail.” She sighed. Maybe by focusing on her less-than-competent kitchen skills, she could distract Ashley from this truth.
“So all this is for Dylan, huh?” Ashley asked, dashing any hope Ella had of fooling her.
“Oh, absolutely,” she said. Maybe if Ella admitted it, Ashley would buy her line about convincing Dylan with food. “He’s so skeptical about a beach party, and I had this idea about a fried chicken and champagne reception that I got from Martha Stewart’s webpage.”
“Fried chicken and champagne?”
Ella nodded.
“Need help?” Ashley asked, glancing at the soggy potatoes.
“Oh, that’s not necessary. I can—”
“It’s no trouble. And besides, this is for your mom, right?”
Ella let go of a little breath. Had she bought the line? Maybe. “Right.” Ella nodded vigorously because it was for her mother. Not Dylan. At all.
“So, have you ever fried chicken before?”
“Uh, no, but I’ve got Granny’s recipe and—” Oh crap. Had she just told Ashley Scott that she had her grandmother’s fried chicken recipe?
This transgression was far worse than sleeping with Dylan. And the avarice in Ashley’s eyes confirmed it.
“Um, well, uh…damn. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Granny is sure her fried chicken will convince Dylan that a beach party is the way to go.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll help you fry this chicken, and then I’ll share my hummingbird cake recipe with Nancy. Don’t you fret about it. We’ll work it out.”
“I don’t know… I’m starting to think I should have called Annie Robinson to cater this picnic.”
“Maybe you should have, but since you didn’t, why don’t we get busy?”
“Thanks. You’ve been so incredibly kind to me.”
“Nonsense. Kindness has nothing to do with it. I’m getting your grandmother’s chicken recipe. Honey, you have no idea how valuable that is.”
“Yeah. I have a feeling I’m never going to hear the end of this.”
* * *
Dylan arrived at Howland House at six on the dot to find Ella waiting for him. Once again, she showed up in a shapeless India-print dress with her damp hair piled up on top of her head in its usual messy bun. She’d obviously just stepped out of the bath, and the scent of sandalwood rose from her skin, making him a tiny bit dizzy.
He wanted to scoop her into his arms, bury his nose in the nape of her neck, and drink in her sandalwood scent. And after that, he wanted to carry her upstairs and have his way with her, after he’d taken all the pins out of her hair.
Yeah. He had fallen into lust for his soon-to-be stepsister. Tonight was going to be agonizing.
“Can you help me carry the cooler and the hamper?” she asked, with a smile that threatened t
o melt his bones, except for the operative one.
“Sure,” he said, picking up the cooler and the hamper and following her like a little puppy right out the door. The breeze stirred the edges of her skirt giving a glimpse of leg, while the early-evening sun through the gauzy fabric created a silhouette of her slim body that turned his mouth into the Sahara. She had this lovely way of walking, with a sexy little sway to her hips.
Dammit, he wished he hadn’t noticed.
He stowed the picnic hamper and cooler in the trunk, and they set off for Paradise Beach, which was on the other side of the island. They didn’t say more than three words during the drive, but the tension in the car was thicker than overcooked oatmeal. When he pulled into Cloud Nine’s driveway, he was ready to concede the whole beach party point and take her right back to Howland House.
Coming out here was a bad idea. Who could fight her beauty or the blended scents of sandalwood and fried chicken? He took one look at the beach and decided she had a strong case for the beach party idea, or any other idea she might have for the evening.
The night was perfect, with a gentle sea breeze tempering the constant humidity. As they walked out onto the sand, the sky was just turning a deeper blue, and the calm ocean sparkled as if someone had scattered diamonds on its surface.
She spread an old quilt in shades of faded green and pink over the sand, and he anchored the corners with the cooler and picnic basket.
Yup, this was a perfect spot for making out. Only he wasn’t here to make out with her. He saw multiple cold showers in his immediate future.
He stopped to shuck off his boat shoes before stepping onto the blanket but took another moment to glance at her. Her hair was starting to dry, and the breeze sent tendrils into her eyes and around her beautifully shaped ears.
He settled on the blanket, and she turned those big, sad anime eyes on him, inspecting him. Her mouth softened a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing a shirt with a collar with the top button undone.”
Except for that time on the boardwalk when she’d unbuttoned it herself or last night when she’d seen him without any shirt. But he decided not to mention that.
She bent over, the loose dress sliding down one shoulder. Oh man.
She opened the cooler and withdrew a bottle of Magic Hat #9. “Thirsty?”
Yes, he was thirsty. But not for a beer. Instead of admitting the truth, he asked, “How did you know I liked Magic Hat?”
“I know a guy,” she said, dropping to the blanket and hastily readjusting her dress. He was so disappointed. If he couldn’t touch her, looking at her was still good.
“So, what’s for dinner?” Maybe the food would distract his one-track mind.
“Fried chicken, coleslaw, and potato salad. I made it myself.”
“Oh?”
She gave him a glance that he couldn’t quite read. Was she annoyed? Amused? What?
“I did. But the recipes all belong to Granny, and Ashley Scott may have given me some tips on how to keep the oil hot when frying chicken.”
“You know,” he said, taking a swig of his ale, “any other woman wouldn’t have felt the need to admit that she had help.”
“Oh, so you’re an expert on women, then?” She reached into the hamper and pulled out a couple of red-checked napkins. Man, she’d gone all out, hadn’t she?
Why? Did she want to win the argument about party venues, or was it about something else? He so wanted it to be about something else. Although that would complicate everything.
She handed him the napkin. “So I’m taking your silence to mean that you are an expert on women.”
He snorted. “I’ve been around the block a few times. How about you?”
She didn’t answer his question. Instead, she reached into the hamper and pulled out several Tupperware containers, a couple of paper plates that had been tucked into wicker holders, and real silverware.
When her silence had stretched out for an eternity, he said, “I guess, being a musician, you have vast experience with the male gender.”
“Why would musicians have more experience?” She gave him a frown that underscored the resemblance between mother and daughter.
“I don’t know. You were on the road all those years.”
“I was on the road with Cody all those years.”
Wait, what was she saying? He straightened, staring at her, not daring to ask the obvious question. Had she only been with Cody until…?
Damn.
Did that make him special or just the guy she’d decided to experiment with? Either way, he felt gut punched. He was grateful when Ella started popping the lids on the food. Maybe he could stuff his face and avoid inserting his foot into his mouth a second time.
And besides, food was a great way to sublimate his desire. So he helped himself to a couple of chicken legs and some sides. His first bite of the chicken was revelatory. He’d never eaten fried chicken that was as crispy or as delicious or as golden brown as that drumstick.
“This is good,” he said with his mouth half full.
She grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “So, what do you think about Paradise Beach now? I want you to imagine a pretty tent with some informal flowers and plenty of fried chicken legs and champagne for the guests.”
“So, are you planning to fry up the chicken yourself? For one hundred people?”
“Well, no. We’ll obviously have to find a caterer.”
“Too bad, because this chicken is really good.”
She blushed again, as if this smallest of compliments was something new for her. “Thank you,” she said in a tiny voice that the breeze blew away. She looked out at the ocean. She was so beautiful.
“So,” she said, barely above the sound of the surf, “are you willing to have the party here?”
“You’re acting like it’s my decision.”
She turned toward him then, her eyes big, expressive, and maybe a little sad. “It is your decision. I mean, I like the idea, but you’re the one who needs convincing.”
He put his empty plate aside and inched closer to her. “I guess it’s okay. If it doesn’t rain.”
“It won’t rain.” Her words were barely above a whisper, and the sea breeze carried them off.
If only he could be so sure. Maybe he needed to take a chance on the weather. Maybe he needed to take a chance on her.
What would happen if he asked her another personal question? Would she pull the conversation back to party planning? If she was any other woman on the face of the planet, he might have asked her about her childhood, or probed to discover her favorite color, or asked any of a million other little questions.
His original plan had been to probe her for all of Brenda’s secrets. He still wanted to know the secrets. But not for any nefarious plan. Now he simply wanted to know the answers. Just because.
But Ella wasn’t any other woman on the face of the planet. She was Brenda’s daughter. And it seared him to think that one day he would probably know all her secrets, but she would forever be the one just beyond his reach.
* * *
Ella tried not to look at Dylan. She studied the surf, and the darkening sky, and the colors of the sunset. But every once in a while, she glanced at him. The sea breeze lifted his curly hair, blowing it over his forehead and making him look decidedly Byronic.
She wanted him to say yes to the beach party, but more than that, she wanted him to talk about himself. He never did that.
Why? Was it because there was nothing to share, or did he keep all those things close? Was he shy? She had a feeling he was shy. And reserved. She liked that about him.
She suddenly wanted to know what it had been like growing up without a mother. She wanted to compare notes because she’d never known her father as a child.
But she kept her mouth shut. Letting him into her heart would be a huge mistake. She needed to set aside this crazy attraction and move on with her life. Besides, she was terrified that falling for Dylan would bring
nothing but misery to her mother.
The silence grew, becoming a living thing that threatened to strangle her. She sat there fighting for breath, when suddenly he said “ow” in a loud and annoyed tone.
He leaned forward, inspecting his bare ankle. “Damn,” he said, getting to his feet as if he’d been scalded by a cattle prod. He turned in her direction. “Get up, before you’re eaten alive.”
“What?”
“No-see-ums. They’re everywhere. We’ve probably already been bitten. We just don’t know it yet.” He started packing up the food without explanation, snapping lids on containers and throwing stuff into the picnic basket and cooler. “That does it. We can’t have the party here. We’ll get chewed up and spit out.”
What the hell was he talking about? She hadn’t been bitten. There was no bug problem at Paradise Beach. She’d enjoyed the sunset out here many times over the last couple of months. “What, are you afraid of a few bugs?”
He stopped throwing things into the picnic hamper and stared at her, evidently just now realizing that she’d done nothing to help him. “You probably have bites all over you. Sometimes it takes a while to feel the sting. Wait until tomorrow. You’ll be covered in welts. Come on, help me with this quilt.”
She got up. “I get it. I know we made a mistake last night, but you don’t have to resort to a trick in order to push me away.” She turned her back on him and strode up the beach toward Mom’s house. If the damn man had to resort to a gambit like this to end the evening…Well, he could go ahead and fold the quilt and carry the cooler and basket all on his own; he was certainly strong enough for the job.
He caught up to her as she reached the deck attached to her mother’s home. The sky had turned a fabulous shade of magenta as the sun sank over the island. It might have been a perfect moment for romance or something.
Was that it? Was he afraid of romance?
Was she?
She whirled around, ready to broach the untouchable subject, when she saw the red bumps swelling across the patch of chest that his unbuttoned golf shirt exposed.