“Well, yes . . . I suppose so,” she answered tentatively. “Provided, of course, that you don’t mind.”
Greg smiled at her. “Mind?” he asked. “Are you serious? It would be my pleasure! I rarely have such beautiful subjects. And thank you, Brooke. I look forward to starting.”
“Well, good night then,” Brooke said, her heart nearly breaking at the thought of his leaving.
“And good night to you, too,” he answered. While cradling his things in both arms, he limped endearingly out onto the porch and was soon treading his way homeward.
Only moments after Greg’s departure, Brooke’s conflicting emotions collided yet again with an even greater intensity, and her eyes exploded into tears. She already missed his presence beyond all reason, and she badly wanted him to return.
My God, she thought. What will become of me now? And of Greg? And, dare I say it, of us . . . ?
Later, just before she went to bed, she wistfully looked at the framed photograph of Bill that she always kept on her nightstand, no matter where she traveled. It had been with her every day since Bill left, and she had lovingly brought it with her from Syracuse. Normally that picture granted her comfort. But while looking at it now, the only emotion she experienced was overpowering guilt. Before slipping between the sheets she placed the photo facedown atop the table, so that his newly condemning eyes could not look upon her as she slept. Somehow, in the space of less than an hour, her world had changed so vastly, so unexpectedly, that she could no longer bear her husband’s gaze.
As she tried crying herself to sleep, she shed what she believed were unrequited tears. But what she didn’t know—what she couldn’t have known—was that Gregory Butler had experienced the same set of overwhelming emotions this night, as well. And that he, too, was finding sleep impossible to capture.
MOMENTARILY STOPPING IN her reading, Chelsea wiped her teary eyes.
“It is a terrible thing, being this way,” she then read aloud to Brandon. “I feel so guilty and torn, my heart suddenly a jumble of desire, guilt, joy, and sadness. What am I to do now? My conscience says that I should return to Syracuse as soon as possible and forget all about this man named Gregory Butler. But my heart is demanding that I stay and discover where all of these newfound feelings may take me. All I know for certain is that I must somehow decide. And although the outcome may have disastrous implications for everything I know and love, and I am quite unsure of where life is now leading me, I feel compelled to follow . . .”
With a sigh, Chelsea closed the old journal and placed it on the coffee table. The same table where Brooke and Greg shared their champagne, so many years ago, she thought. And the exact spot where she first realized her great desire for him. How did their story end, I wonder? And perhaps even more important, am I still sure that I want to know?
Brandon reached out and comfortingly touched her on one shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t suppose that I’ll be able to answer that question until we’ve learned everything that Brooke’s journal has to offer,” she answered. “Brooke wanted me to read it, but given what we’ve learned so far, I’m still at a loss to understand why.”
“I know that it seems we’ve discovered the beginnings of an emotional affair,” Brandon said. “But we still don’t know whether Brooke and Greg ever acted on it.”
“I know . . . ,” Chelsea answered. When she next looked at him, she realized that it had been many hours since they had last eaten. “You must be ravenous,” she said. “But it’s a bit late to cook a full meal. I could rustle us up a couple of sandwiches, if you want.”
Brandon nodded. “That’d be good,” he answered. “I could use something in my stomach besides alcohol.”
At last, Chelsea smiled. “Consider it done,” she said. “Is tuna salad okay?”
“Anything . . . ,” he answered.
On impulse, she reached out and gently brushed the hair from his forehead. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
BEARING TWO PLATES, Chelsea soon returned to the living room. When she reached the sofa, she smiled. Brandon lay fully stretched out, fast asleep and snoring lightly next to the dogs.
After returning the sandwiches to the kitchen, Chelsea tiptoed into her bedroom, found a woolen blanket, and used it to cover Brandon. Then she stood back and again regarded him, thinking. As he lay there in the firelight she took in his dark, wavy hair, his strong face, and his muscular body.
And then, suddenly, something stirred within her. It was a feeling of which, until this very moment, she had been less aware. But now, as she stood looking down at him in the quiet of the night, she at last felt it fully and it swelled her heart nearly to breaking. Totally overcome by it, for several moments she just stood there, watching him sleep.
And there it is, she thought joyously. Like my dear grandmother, I too am falling in love with the man in the neighboring cottage. And also like Brooke, I’ve come to realize something else. I want him more than any man I’ve ever known. Before this moment, I thought I had loved others. But now, as I look down upon Brandon, I realize that I was wrong and that all the others in my life were mere dalliances. This is romantic love as it was meant to be—palpable, alive, overpowering in its intensity. But will Brandon ever be able to fully return my sentiments? Can he in fact ever overcome the loss of his fiancée and find the freedom to love again? Only time will tell, I suppose. And to find out, I must be willing to wait . . .
TWO HOURS LATER, Chelsea still found sleep elusive. The moonlight streamed through her bedroom window, coating everything in a slivery sheen, while the passing clouds created ephemeral shadows that glided, ghostlike, across the room. Perhaps her sleeplessness was from knowing that Brandon still dozed before the fireplace. But far more likely, she knew, it was her sudden realization that she had fallen fully and irretrievably in love with him that kept her awake. Just then she heard footsteps. Although they arrived lightly, she knew that they were his.
Turning in bed, she rose up on one elbow and looked toward the double doors that led into the living room. Then she saw him pause near one of the door frames, as if unsure. He looked like some wonderfully carved Greco-Roman relief as the last of the fireplace embers dimly glowed behind his tall silhouette.
“You’re awake?” he asked quietly.
Chelsea nodded. “I couldn’t sleep,” she answered.
“Nor could I,” Brandon said. Then silence reigned once more while he carefully considered his next words.
“May I join you?” he asked respectfully.
Suddenly, the tug on Chelsea’s heart was far stronger than any before it. I want him so badly, she thought. But is now the time? What would it say about me, about him . . . about . . . us?
Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward a little. “I’d like that, Brandon,” she said at last. “I really would. And I’d be lying to you if I said that I haven’t thought about it. I’m just not sure that I’m ready for—”
Before she could finish her sentence, he was moving toward her. He approached quietly, then bent down and looked at her. At last she could clearly see his features, as they too were now highlighted by the full moon. She felt her heart beat even faster.
“You didn’t hear me out, city girl,” he said. “I just want to hold you.”
With shaking hands, Chelsea turned over and pulled down the sheet and comforter on the other side of the bed. Still clothed, Brandon got into bed beside her. As he spooned her from behind, his body took on the shape of hers and she could feel his breath, warm and steady, against the nape of her neck. He felt so right lying there against her, far more so than any man before him.
“Thank . . . you,” she heard him whisper as he neared the cusp of sleep.
“You’re welcome,” she whispered back.
Before closing her eyes, Chelsea took his free hand and held it against her beating heart.
Chapter 21
When Brandon awoke, the first thing he saw was
Chelsea, sitting on the side of the bed. She was already showered and dressed. In her hands she held a mug of steaming black coffee.
“Hey there,” she said quietly.
As Brandon rose up on one elbow, his head started to swim. After taking a deep breath, he ran his fingers back through his hair and then gratefully accepted the mug from Chelsea. The mind-clearing coffee was hot and good. At last he managed a smile. But some of the effects of the bourbon were still with him, and it showed.
“Bless you,” he said after again sipping his coffee.
Chelsea smiled. “You’re welcome,” she answered.
Brandon looked at her apologetically. “So, uh . . . did I do anything inappropriate last night?” he asked. “I mean, I woke up in your bed but I’m still dressed. So unless you redressed me afterward, nothing happened, right?”
“Right.”
“Thank God,” he said.
Chelsea raised her eyebrows. “You’re actually glad that nothing happened?” she asked.
“Sure,” he answered.
“I don’t get it.”
Before replying, Brandon set the coffee mug atop the nightstand and gingerly clambered out of bed. “It’s simple,” he answered with a mischievous smile. “If something more had indeed happened, it’d be a crying shame if I couldn’t remember it.”
This time, Chelsea laughed fully. “I suppose that’s true,” she answered.
As Brandon stood there before her, with his hair mussed and a telltale five o’clock shadow on his face, Chelsea again felt overcome by his presence. They had slept side by side all night, his body curled up against hers, his breath warm and rhythmic against her neck. When at last she had awakened, it had been all she could do to leave his side and go make coffee.
It’s still true, she thought. The night wasn’t playing tricks on me after all. Even in the cold light of day, I love this man. I can’t deny it now, can’t take my heart back to how it was before. . .
Brandon turned and looked at the nightstand alarm clock. “Wow . . . ,” he said. “It’s already nine thirty.”
“What time do you have to be at the hospital?” Chelsea asked urgently. “Sorry, but you were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”
“It’s okay,” he answered. “According to the rotation schedule, I’m off today.” Then he smiled wryly and rubbed his forehead. “Good thing, too,” he added. “So unless somebody requests a house call, the day is mine.”
He then stepped closer and looked into Chelsea’s eyes, sparking her physical need for him again. She could literally feel his male presence tempting her once more, which made part of her regret that nothing sexual had happened last night.
“So tell me,” he said. “Shall we spend the day together?”
While trying to surreptitiously calm her excitement, Chelsea smiled and nodded. “I’d love that,” she finally answered. “Do you suppose that we could go to the Blue Rooster and have lunch? I’d love to see it.”
Brandon picked up the coffee mug and took another appreciative swallow. Slowly but surely, he was starting to come alive.
“Absolutely,” he answered. “But first I’ve got to go home and clean up. I’m a mess.”
“You go and get yourself presentable,” Chelsea said. “When you come back, we’ll take off.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he answered.
“THANK YOU FOR this,” Chelsea said to Brandon.
Happy to be with her, Brandon smiled. “Well, it wasn’t like my social schedule was full! And besides, I’m having a good time.”
Chelsea happily looked around as she and Brandon sauntered through downtown Serendipity. The weather was nice, with puffy clouds and a light, cooling breeze. The main street was just like Chelsea had expected, with aged brick buildings, narrow sidewalks, and coin-operated parking meters. Their destinations a mystery, cars and pickup trucks bustled back and forth. Seeing Serendipity for the first time made Chelsea wonder just how much, or how little, perhaps, it had changed since her grandmother last visited back in 1942.
Serendipity had no large chain stores or franchise restaurants, it seemed. Instead, Serendipity’s much humbler businesses seemed to exude a quaint mom-and-pop quality. It was as if no matter who walked in, he or she would immediately be welcomed as both a customer and a friend.
Chelsea and Brandon soon passed by an old-time barbershop with an honest-to-goodness barber’s pole mounted out front, an ancient shoe-repair place that looked as if it were still serving Civil War officers, and an old-fashioned soda shop complete with an awning, a marble counter, and an original soda-mixing machine. Most of the businesses weren’t so vintage, but those that were seemed especially welcoming, and their charming ambience put Chelsea at ease.
“Before we go to lunch,” she asked Brandon, “is there by chance an art supply store in town?”
Brandon nodded. “The hardware store carries some of that stuff,” he answered. “Why?”
“I’d like to paint while I’m up here. I don’t need a lot of things—just the basics, to get me started.”
“So you paint, eh?” he asked. “Guess that makes sense, you being an art teacher.”
“Yeah,” Chelsea answered, “although I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as my grandmother Brooke was. She’s the one who first taught me. Plus, I also took some formal studio training in college.”
Moments later they made way for a young couple coming in the opposite direction. The wife was pushing a brand-new baby carriage. As they passed, their baby boy looked up at Chelsea and gurgled happily.
Brandon snorted. “That figures,” he said.
“What does?” Chelsea asked.
“You being able to instantly attract men of any age,” he answered.
As Chelsea laughed a bit, her thoughts returned to earlier that day, while Brandon had been freshening up at his cottage. She had called Allistaire Reynolds to request that he arrange for the direct deposit of her checks and for her mail to be forwarded. When Chelsea told him that it was delivered by boat, he had laughed.
Antiques hound that he was, when she eagerly described the wonderful old Chris-Craft she had inherited, she distinctly heard him gasp. Then his lawyerly instincts took over, and he asked her if it was registered and insured. To her mild chagrin, she said that she didn’t know. No matter, Allistaire said. Just send him the paperwork that Jacques had given her, and he would take of it.
After buying Chelsea’s art supplies and storing them in Brandon’s Jeep, they ventured onward. Soon Brandon stopped before a picturesque café.
“So this is it?” Chelsea asked. “It’s cute!”
“Yes,” Brandon answered. “It certainly is.”
When Chelsea had first visited Beauregard’s, she was struck by how many of the customers were men. But as she and Brandon entered the Blue Rooster, it became equally clear that the ladies of Serendipity had claimed this place as their own special province. The café was nearly full of women, most of them eagerly chatting away as they picked at their lunches. Chelsea had vacationed in France several years ago, and she had loved it there. To her delight, the Blue Rooster seemed a near-perfect replica of a Parisian café, and it still looked exactly as Brooke had described in her journal.
Brandon shepherded Chelsea to one of the empty booths, where they got comfortable. As she set her purse down beside her, Chelsea smiled broadly.
“This place is absolutely charming!” she said. “It looks like something that belongs on the Left Bank! I would have never guessed . . . How long has it been here?”
“Since the early twenties,” Brandon answered. “Like Beauregard’s, this too is a family business, but older. Because Quebec lies just across the Saint Lawrence River, there’s a lot of French influence around here. The Blue Rooster is still owned by Emily Rousseau, although I don’t know for how much longer.”
“Why?” Chelsea asked.
“Well,” Brandon explained, “Emily’s story is a bit like Jenny’s. Her father, He
nri, owned this place first, and on his death she inherited it. Emily lives in the upstairs apartment. She must be at least eighty by now, and bless her heart, she still works here every day. She was an only child, and her husband’s gone. Sadly, they were childless. Emily loves this place so much that I highly doubt she will ever sell, even though she’s the last of the line. Once she’s gone, God only knows what will happen to it.”
Then Brandon looked around the Blue Rooster wistfully, like it was some sort of treasure to be protected and preserved.
“I’m wise enough to know that nothing lasts forever, Chelsea,” he said. “Even so, it’d be a crying shame if somebody turned this wonderful spot into a damn Starbucks . . .”
“I would hate to see that, too,” Chelsea answered.
Just then a young waitress carrying two glasses of ice water approached their booth. “Hi, Brandon,” she said pleasantly. “Who’s your friend?”
Brandon gestured toward the waitress. “Missy Tomlinson,” he answered, “I’d like you to meet Chelsea Enright. She’s from Syracuse and spending her summer out at Lake Evergreen.”
After putting down the glasses, Missy held out one hand and Chelsea shook it. “Pleased to meetcha,” she said. “So, do you guys know what you’d like for lunch? We have a great special today.”
“What is it?” Chelsea asked.
“Truman’s Tomato Sandwiches,” Missy answered. “They’re really good.”
Chelsea immediately felt a tingle run up her spine. Truman’s Tomato Sandwiches . . . ?
The name had made an impact on Brandon, as well. He looked over at Chelsea and said, “How does that sound to you?”
Chelsea finally snapped out of her reverie and nodded. “That sounds great,” she answered.
“Okay, then,” Brandon said to Missy. “We’ll have two of those, and a couple of iced teas. Oh, and would you also bring us some of Emily’s deep-fried pickle slices?”
“Good choices,” Missy replied. After replacing her pencil over one ear, she began wending her way back toward the kitchen.
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