by Lisa Norato
She found him popping the cork off a bottle of wine and joined him at the small butcher-block island in the center of the kitchen.
“I thought you might be thirsty,” he said.
“I am.” Marcella tilted the bottle to read its label. A German riesling. Very nice. She held the glasses while William poured, then handed one off to him and clinked hers against it. “Salute.”
“Cheers.”
They watched each other over the rim of their glasses as they sipped. The wine eased down Marcella’s throat, luscious, honeyed — lightly sweet. She could feel herself relaxing by the minute.
“I should start thinking about lunch,” she ventured, turning to take stock of the rest of William’s kitchen. She found it bachelor-friendly in a nonthreatening sort of way. Compact, yet more efficient than what she had in her small New York apartment. “It’s spotless.”
“One of the perks of not doing much cooking, I s’pose. A really tidy kitchen.”
The cabinets were of light oak. The stainless steel stove had a backsplash of black tile where the pots and pans hung. But … hmm, no refrigerator?
William directed her attention beneath the counter next to the sink. Marcella opened the door, only to be struck with amusement at what she found inside. “I don’t know why I thought it would be bare.” The fridge was packed with casseroles.
“I imagine your refrigerator must be well stocked.”
“It’s pathetic. Even the best chefs don’t necessarily enjoy cooking for themselves. No, if I’m lucky, dinners for me are usually experimental recipes left over from the magazine’s test kitchen.”
“Sounds a bit adventuresome. Well, I’ll go out and gather the veggies, shall I? Feel free to go through the cupboards and make a list of any other ingredients you might need. I’ll pop down to the grocer’s and pick them up. Here, you might want to don this.”
He handed her a folded square of navy blue fabric.
Marcella eyed it curiously before shaking it open. It was an apron. Across the front, it read, “The Naked Chef.”
“All I have, I’m afraid. A housewarming gift from Bertie. Really,” he argued, when she shot him a comical look. “It’s the name of a television cooking program. It’s not a suggestion or anything.”
Marcella thought he looked extremely amused with himself as he headed out the back door. She slipped the apron over her head, muttering wryly to herself, “I’m not the one who refused to take off his clothes.”
William paused in the doorway. “What’s that?”
“Zucchini. I’ll need some zucchini.”
“Here in England, we call them courgettes.” He was smiling in such a way that Marcella suspected he’d heard her correctly the first time.
“Fine then, courgettes. And garlic and peppers and whatever else you’ve got.”
“I think you’ll be really pleased with my courgettes. Right, well, if I haven’t returned in ten minutes, you’ll likely find me in the garden taking my clothes off for my role as the Naked Chef’s assistant.”
“Tease,” she shouted as he chuckled out the door.
He came back minutes later, fully clothed and carrying an armload of produce which he dumped on the counter. Marcella handed him her list. William kissed her goodbye, and while he went to buy bread, cheeses, and pasta, Marcella prepared the vegetables.
She was really enjoying herself, feeling right at home, getting into a domestic swing. She’d organized her ingredients and decided she had enough to make not only the pasta primavera, but a roasted eggplant spread and a smashed cherry tomato and olive bruschetta.
She was peeling and chopping, thinking how incredibly great this weekend had turned out, how lucky she was to have met a terrific and totally fun guy like William, blissful in the romance of cooking dinner for him, loving his home, when Marcella realized what she was doing. She was fantasizing. Fantasizing about this relationship working out.
Was that what she wanted? She didn’t know. Just thinking about it gave her heart palpitations. William’s world was so far removed from her life in New York, so foreign. Was she willing to do whatever it took to be with him? Living in the English countryside with a vicar? It was almost bizarre.
Suddenly everything seemed too quiet. The house was too quiet. Bramble Moor was too quiet.
She couldn’t breathe.
Chapter 11
Marcella threw open the back door and stuck out her head. She fanned her face with her hand, but it didn’t help. She couldn’t get the warm afternoon air into her lungs fast enough, so she stumbled out onto the terrace, gasping in the shade of an aged, ivy-covered stone wall about ten feet tall.
She was starting to hyperventilate.
All around her grew a dense, woodland garden. Ferns, hostas, shrubbery, and herbs mingled with an explosion of blooms and rose bushes, all jostling each other for space. Everything sort of spilled over everything else. You’d think with all the oxygen being generated she’d be able to breathe.
But this anxiety attack wasn’t about to be calmed by a deep breath.
Some crazy, hopelessly romantic part of her was enjoying the role of domestic diva, which wasn’t so much an issue except it brought to mind Sallie’s little speech outside the church and made Marcella realize she was seriously beginning to want to give a future with William a real shot — vicar, English countryside, and all. Well, why not? For love, she’d do anything.
Hold on Betty Crocker homemaker. Not that simple. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. She had a life in New York. She had a fantastic career and, hopefully, a promotion waiting in the wings. And although it might work for some women, in this instance, having it all just wasn’t an option.
It all came down to location, location, location.
Marcella heard her name being called and snapped-to in fear of being exposed. She pulled herself together and arranged her features into a smile. “I’m out here.”
Babette loped out onto the terrace. William stood in the doorway gazing at her adoringly for a moment with a silly grin on his face. “I reckon I’ve got everything you asked. They’d some wonderfully fresh strawberries I brought home as well.” He gestured indoors with a jerk of his head and said, “I popped the lot in the fridge.” Then he stepped out, letting the door slam behind him. “Been out here long?”
“A few minutes. I was just admiring your garden. Gracious Living runs a series on gardening. I don’t cover the stories myself, of course,” she said as he came to stand beside her, “but I know enough to recognize a traditional English cottage garden when I see one. It takes real talent to tuck so many plants into a contained area and have it come out looking this spontaneous and natural. It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. Admittedly, gardening is sort of an obsession with me. I love mucking about. Keeps me grounded. Literally,” he added with a twinkle. “When I’m in the garden, I lose the need to control everything. You see, no matter how meticulous I may be in the planning, it never quite turns out the way I thought it would. Sort of like life, really. Sometimes the best things are just happy accidents.” He grinned.
Suddenly, for no explainable reason, Marcella’s vision blurred behind a sheen of tears. She blinked furiously to clear it.
“Is something wrong, Marcella?”
“What? No, of course not. Nothing.”
William frowned, and the longer he regarded her, the deeper his brow creased. “Is it me? Have I done something? Forgotten to do something? Here you were, serving coffee in the church hall all morning, and now I’ve brought you home to prepare my lunch. I’ve been selfish, haven’t I? Or is it the dress? Please, let me pay to have it cleaned.”
Marcella couldn’t help but smile. “Selfish? You? Please, no,” she scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “No, I’m fine. And you’ve been great. Don’t worry about the dress. The dress is fine, too. Really, William, it’s nothing. Nothing,” she reiterated, trying to keep her voice upbeat. “It’s silly. I’d be ashamed to mention it, it’s so ridiculous.”
“Ah, but as you�
�ve pointed out yourself, I’m the one people round here turn to when they’ve a confession to make. It’s all part of what I do, isn’t it, being sympathetic to what others are feeling? Actually, I was a really keen listener long before I was ordained. Hey, if it’s the collar that bothers you, here’s a thought. I’ll nick inside, fetch you a glass of wine, pull a Guinness t-shirt over my head, and you can pretend you’re talking to a bartender. And you would be, in fact. In a manner of speaking. You’d be talking with a retired bartender, what d’you say?”
A giggle bubbled out of her at the imploring look on his face.
“Trust me, Marcella, there’s nothing you could say that I’d dismiss as silly.”
She was smiling now and, oh, what was the use? It would’ve been easier to lie to her mother. How was she to jive this handsome vicar with his clear blue, see-right-through-to-your-soul, compassionate eyes? Besides, this had escalated into way too big a deal. She couldn’t let him think he’d done something to put her off.
“Okay. The truth is, I’m having such a good time, I hate to see it end,” she admitted, quickly averting her eyes while she took a breath. “See? Now, tell me that wasn’t silly? Oh God, I’m so embarrassed.”
But when she glanced up again all the humor was gone from William’s expression. He stared blankly, until gradually, Marcella began to notice something raw and vulnerable burn in his eyes.
“You’re not having me on?” He reached for her upper arms and drew her close. “It’s not just happening to me?”
Marcella pressed her hands to his chest and let his meaning sink in. What-d’ya-know? They were on the same page again. She smiled, then shook her head, no. She definitely wasn’t having him on.
“This is really happening, isn’t it?” he asked again. “You and me? I mean, I’m sensing there could be something special between us. Absolutely. And I think you feel it as well. Am I right?”
She nodded.
“Well then, it’s quite simply, really. I won’t let you go until we sort this out. Surely, there’s some way we can keep in touch.”
“Oh, sure, we can keep in touch. But if you’re talking about a relationship, that’s not so simple. Maybe we’re just kidding ourselves. Tomorrow I’m going home to my career in New York and you’ll still be here with yours. How’s that going to work?”
“I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.”
“That wouldn’t include a relocation to New York, would it?” You could live with me, she was thinking. Fantasizing, rather.
He looked stricken at the idea.
“No, I didn’t think so. Not unless you could bring your entire congregation, right?” Marcella grinned, giving him the cue to relax. She understood how deeply he was rooted here. People depended on him. His church, this little village, a homey cottage, they all defined the Honorable Will.
It would be so simple if she could just pack him in her suitcase, smuggle him home, then carry him around all day in a PuchiBag like Sallie did with her teacup poodle.
“But you,” he ventured. “Perhaps you could… .”
He trailed off at the appalled look on her face.
“What? I could what? Move here? And what sort of employment would an urban girly girl like myself find in Bramble Moor? You’re not suggesting I pin a scarlet letter to my chest and shack up with the local vicar?”
“The cheek,” he lamented. “Er, no. I wasn’t, actually.”
She did have her pride. Marcella considered herself more secure in her role as a single, professional woman than to change citizenship for the opportunity of dating someone. Manhattan, after all, was swarming with available men. Granted, it was nearly impossible to find love. But a date? A date was feasible. If she had the time, energy, or, for that matter, level of desire she felt with William.
But all was not lost. She sensed the wheels turning in his head.
“Right, well, I, on the other hand, I could perhaps ask the bishop to send me a curate. Yes, with a bit of training, a curate could share in the responsibilities. Then I’d be free to take a mini-break every now and then, what d’you think? I could come to New York.”
“It’s a start,” she said, thrilled he’d actually hit on something that offered them hope. “It’s a great start. Okay, so, let’s enjoy the day and take it from there.”
“Come, walk in the garden with me.”
He was halfway to offering her his hand when suddenly there came a distant look in his eyes.
“Be back in a flash,” he said before disappearing into the house.
Moments later Marcella heard him call out her name. She spied him through the screen door with a wine glass in each hand and a bowl of strawberries cradled against his chest.
She pulled a how-sweet-are-you face and walked over to swing open the door. “Are we going on a picnic?”
“Er, would you mind?” He indicated the berries with a nod.
“Oh sure.” She grabbed for the bowl and he stepped out to join her on the terrace, making a beeline for a wall of clipped boxwoods.
“Right, just this way,” he said.
Her curiosity piqued, Marcella followed him behind the hedgerow where a garden walkway lay hidden from view. It took her aback, the sight was so beautiful. Flowering plants bordered either side of a lush carpet of grass in a progression of color. Blue yielded to gray-blue then lavender then faded to pale pinks and finally off-white blooms. And there, waiting for them at the end of this grassy aisle was a white-painted wooden lawn bench for two.
A strikingly modern focal point in such an old fashioned, tousled garden. Its high back was made of wavy, horizontal slats that gave the illusion the loveseat was swaying with the breeze.
“William, your mom was right. Aren’t you the accomplished gardener? I’ve never seen anything so romantic.”
Babette lay sprawled across the seat. William gestured for her to get down. “Babes and I spend quite a bit of time here, you see. I’m usually reading, writing sermons, sometimes just sitting. I don’t recall ever feeling particularly romantic. But mind, a young couple from my parish did request to take their vows here recently. So perhaps you have something there, Marcella.” Turning, he smiled into her eyes. “Perhaps it is rather romantic. Shall we have a seat and give it a go?”
Inside, she felt a fizz of excitement. Who was he kidding? He had this all planned. “Yes, let’s.”
She didn’t hesitate to be seated even though Marcella knew she’d now be adding dog hairs to the collection of smudges and stains defacing her once-chic, summer-white sundress. She balanced the bowl of berries on the armrest and accepted a glass of wine from William.
He folded himself into the seat beside her, relaxed back with a sigh, and swung an arm around her shoulders. His legs fell open. The denseness of his quads pressed against her slim thigh.
Behind them, the flowers faded into the forest. A whiff of honeysuckle scented the air.
Marcella plucked up a strawberry, dipped it in her wine, and fed it to William.
“Did you grow up in a mansion?” The question had just popped into her head. She wanted to know everything about him. It was a start.
He glanced at her quizzically, then admitted, “Well … um, yeah … the manor house where my parents still reside,” he mumbled between chews.
“What is it like?” She watched him lick the wine-berry juice from his lips.
After a thoughtful pause, he made a frown of distaste. “Drafty.” He was looking out across the garden and there was laughter in his eyes.
“Funny, you don’t look like a man who’s survived the trauma of childhood drafts.”
He turned into her gaze. “I’ll take you there sometime, if you don’t believe me. The formal dining room still has no electric lighting.”
Marcella wondered if that day would actually come. “How did you see what you were eating? Or was that the whole point.”
He laughed. “Mum prefers to make do with a roaring fire and candlelight.”
“Sounds wonderful.”<
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“Oh, it is. Until the drafts snuff out the candles.”
She gave him a playful slap on the forearm. “Seriously, I know people in New York who’ve built careers around buying and maintaining a country home. They slave to afford one, then put up with the commute or either spend their weeknights in the City away from their families, all for the pleasure of enjoying a peaceful environment on the weekends. But for you, this is your everyday life.”
“That’s true. I am fortunate, absolutely. But in all fairness, it was a bit difficult getting used to all the peacefulness. Too quiet. Too far away from my mates. I arrived here and nearly everyone my own age was married, busy starting families. I was mad with loneliness.” He reached down to where his dog lay at his feet and scratched her behind the ears. “Dunno how I’d have survived without Babes.”
“But then the ladies of my parish started welcoming me with cottage pies and toffee tarts.” He reclined back with a sigh. “As time went on, I began to value the time I had to focus on people, rather than having to rush from one appointment to the next. And the countryside does have its own way of embracing you. I mean, there’s the sunsets and starry nights and changing seasons. And, of course, my gardens. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt more at home anywhere.”
Whoever said nice guys weren’t hot? Suddenly, Marcella didn’t feel like talking anymore. It was all she could do not to crawl into his lap.
She could feel the heat rising off her body and snuggled closer. “So, you say you enjoy ‘reading’ out here?”
He stared. Puzzled at the suggestiveness in her tone, she assumed. Then, all at once, Marcella saw his eyes widen with understanding.
“Oh, I do. You, er, did remember to bookmark our page?”
She answered with a nod, closing her eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers for a long, deep kiss.
He pulled away slowly, tugging on her bottom lip. “Was that where we left off, d’you s’pose?” His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
“Uh-huh,” Marcella managed before their mouths collided again. Endorphins released in her brain, sending feel-good signals all through her system.