Summer Breeze

by Nancy Thayer

  “What about my store?” Bella bit her lip, thinking. “You’ve got a much bigger population in Boston than we do out in the middle of the state.”

  “True. Also, more of your population is earthy-crunchy, hippy-dippy, less-is-more, and mobile. Students won’t buy. Lots of professors won’t buy, because they aren’t making any money and they’re planning to move to another college sooner or later. But you’ve got some established, distinguished scholars with historic homes and lots of rich parents coming up from Connecticut to visit their brilliant offspring. You’re close enough to New York and Boston that you’ll get some of that traffic.”

  “Gosh,” Bella said. “You really do know a lot.”

  Slade smiled. “You’d be surprised.”

  Bella dropped her eyes.

  Near Troy, New York, they stopped in a shop carved out of a garage attached to a white colonial house. The owner was an elegant woman with a snooty nose, savvy eyes, and a piercing voice. Bella saw at once that Slade’s charm bounced off Mrs. Eachern like bullets from Wonder Woman’s bracelets. Still, Bella found a table on which Slade promised her she could double her price, and Slade bought a cabinet. They drove west, stopping twice on different roads with the word Hollow in the name. At one shop, set up in the front rooms of a Victorian farmhouse, they found nothing, but at the other, located in a barn, they each made a purchase. They grabbed a late lunch to go from a drive-through fast-food place and headed on Route 2 back over the mountain into Massachusetts.

  Near Williamstown, they stopped at a shop straight out of Marie Antoinette, or some ancient French monarch with a taste for chandeliers and nude marble statuary. At first Bella thought the owner, clad in a dapper white summer suit, was Rob Lowe. Couldn’t be, she told herself, and as he came closer, she saw that of course it wasn’t.

  Gary Errick’s eyebrows arched with delight when he saw Slade. They fell when Slade introduced Bella. Slade talked with Gary about business while Bella strolled around the shop, nearly tripping on antique Far Eastern carpets piled on top of one another. She picked up a marble statue of some old Greek god overwhelming some poor female, saw the price tag, and set it back down with extreme caution. Nothing here was anywhere near her price range, and she was glad when Slade said they had to leave.

  She thought he’d put on music again for the hour they had left to drive back to Dragonfly Lake. Instead, Slade was in an expansive mood.

  “So you’ve seen a variety of antiques shops. What do you think?” he asked.

  She took a moment to deliberate on his question. “Each shop is unique,” she decided. “What is your shop like, Slade?”

  “I suppose Ralston’s is most like Errick’s. Very posh. Quite pricey. But excellent value, never any doubt about provenance or authenticity. We know our clients and what they’re looking for, so they don’t have to search far for what they want.”

  “I can’t do that,” Bella mused. “I don’t want to do that. I want a range of prices, and lots of different people coming in. I want a young couple to fall in love with one of Natalie’s abstracts and be able to afford it. But I want to price her charcoals high. They look like museum pieces. I don’t want Early American furniture. Half the shops in New England carry Early American. I love the more ornate, but I want the shop to have an airy feeling, so people can walk around and not be afraid they’ll knock something off a pedestal like at Errick’s.”

  Slade laughed. “He does crowd pieces in.” He glanced over at Bella. “You’ve done a lot of thinking.”

  “I guess I have. This trip has been enormously helpful, Slade. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “What’s your next step?”

  She counted off on her fingers. “I’ve got to close Barnaby’s Barn. Which means advertising a huge sale, so I can get rid of as much as possible. I’ve got to completely redo the look of the place, inside and out. I can envision the exterior.… I want to paint it sort of umber, instead of white, with huge topiary plants on either side of the door.”

  “You need to replace the door.”

  “You think? Aren’t Dutch doors kind of … European?”

  “What about hanging big wooden shutters on each side of the door, and leaving the door open? You could have a glass inner door for cold or hot weather, but an open door is inviting.”

  “Oh, what a good idea!” They were on a small, curvy road now, winding through forests, but Bella saw the shop, not the trees. “What color do you think I should paint the interior?”

  “What color do you think you should paint the interior?”

  “The floors are dark-stained pine. They’ve been polyurethaned against use and they’ve held up pretty well. I’m thinking something between beige and pale coral. Not pink. But pale brown with a touch of pink. Do I mean a pale umber? I need to look at paint chips.”

  “We can have a painting party,” Slade suggested.

  Bella cocked her head. “A what?”

  “Some weekend, after you’ve had your sale and are ready to redo the place, we can all get together and paint the interior and exterior. Natalie and I, you and Ben, Morgan and Josh. Maybe your parents. Maybe Brady.”

  “What a good idea. That sounds like fun. Although I’m not sure Brady will want to help.”

  “Pay him. I’ll bet he’ll be useful to you as time goes by. He’s a big kid; he can help move furniture around and hang pictures. You’re going to need a strong man around to help you, you know.”

  “Aaron.” Bella suddenly and guilty remembered. “He’ll help paint. Help move furniture.”

  “Will he?” Slade’s voice was dismissive as he turned onto the narrow lane around Dragonfly Lake.

  “Of course!” How insulting Slade was, implying that Aaron wouldn’t help her!

  Slade turned the van into the Barnabys’ driveway. “It’s late. We’ve had a long day. I’m going to spend the night with Nat. Maybe tomorrow you can round up another male to help me unload your furniture.”

  “This is going so fast!” Bella panicked. “I don’t know where to put the furniture. I mean, I’ll have to move some of Mom’s displays to make room.”

  “You’ve spent some money buying these antiques, Bella.” Slade clicked off the engine and turned to look at her. “You know the saying ‘Put your money where your mouth is’? You’ve done that. Now you need to put your body where your heart is.”

  She frowned, working to untangle his meaning.

  Slade undid his seat belt. Without warning, he leaned over and kissed Bella on her mouth. His lips pressed gently, teasingly. Just when she thought he’d draw away, he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him so that her head fell back and her lips parted. Their breath mingled.

  Then he drew away. Her heart raced. She wanted more. She stared at his wonderfully bewitching pirate’s face, such black hair, his eyes so dark blue they were almost ebony, and the look in those eyes so compelling, full of desire. Full of lust.

  She didn’t want to sit there like a deer frozen by the presence of a panther. Natalie’s warning rang in her mind: Slade’s a rogue, a playboy, not to be trusted.

  She said weakly, “I have to go in.”

  “Do you?” He kept his gaze fixed on her.

  She was not clueless. She certainly wasn’t easy. She didn’t want him to know how much he had aroused her, not when she was fully aware that for him she was only a plaything. He probably kissed every woman he could. He probably bedded every woman he could, and a man who looked like Slade could bed lots of women. She wanted to keep her dignity.

  “Slade, you bad boy,” she teased. She undid her seat belt and pretended to be insouciant. “Thank you for helping me. This has been an amazing day. Can I phone you tomorrow morning? Maybe take you out for a big breakfast to thank you for today?” She was proud of herself; she sounded so sophisticated!

  His eyes grew even darker. In the irises gleamed a momentary light that reminded Bella, suddenly, of the tough boys she’d taught in third grade, the boys too proud to show hurt. B
ut, of course, Bella had no power to hurt Slade!

  Embarrassed by her thoughts, overwhelmed by her emotions, she slid out of the van onto her unstable high heels. “Thanks so much, Slade. Really.” She hurried toward the safety of her house.

  13

  Now at the beginning of July, the foliage around Dragonfly Lake was so green it almost hummed. The temperature in the Amherst area would reach into the nineties today, and so would the humidity, but near the lake it seemed cooler, especially when a light breeze rippled the water. It was a weekday, so most lakeside residents were at work, but here and there teenagers free from the confines of school raced down the dock, whooping as they jumped into the water or paddled around in inner tubes or on rubber rafts.

  Morgan sat in the grass, still damp with morning dew, near their small private beach, watching Petey fill a bucket of water and carry it up to fill the hole he’d dug in the sand. She had one eye on her son and one on her laptop. She’d just gotten an email from Slade.

  Hey, Morgan, here’s a photo of that Victorian settee I mentioned. It’s only a thousand dollars. A deal, I promise. Plus, what do you think about this big chunk of marble? The veins make it look like a piece of modern art. Petey could climb on it, but it’s not so high he’d get hurt if he fell, and there are no sharp edges. It would “make a statement,” don’t you think?

  Keep cool,

  Slade

  She clicked on the link to the photo of the settee. She could see what Slade meant. It would work well in their living room in that funny bare spot. The upholstery was cream with cream embroidery. Yes. She clicked on the photo of the rock. It was amusing to imagine having a great big piece of rock in the living room—clever of Slade to think of it. She gave him lots of points for considering Petey’s safety. If Petey fell—he was still toddling, not that steady on his feet—and hit his head on the rock, though, he could sustain some serious damage. Of course, that was true of many places in the house. She had taped cushioning Bubble Wrap around their coffee table and the edges of the hearth. She’d put safety latches on all the kitchen and bathroom cupboards and stacked any cleaning materials up high above the sinks, out of reach. Safety gates barricaded the top and bottom of the stairs to the second floor and the stairs to the lawn from the back deck. Josh had gone over their yard with a fine-tooth comb, checking for sharp rocks protruding from the ground.

  You could drive yourself mad protecting your child, Morgan thought. How did people manage not to melt down? How did they allow their precious children to toddle off into the world, knowing they might stub their toes and fall?

  Slade, we’ll take the settee. Let me think about the rock. Morgan

  I’ll bring it out next weekend when I come.

  Great.

  Slade spent more time helping her with the house than Josh did, Morgan mused. But, of course, Josh was working hard to pay for all this stuff. Slade was making money from selling it. She had to remember that. Still …

  She was losing her mind. She was sitting on the shore of an idyllic lake and quietly going nuts.

  “Okay, sweet Pete!” Morgan slammed her laptop shut, grabbed it up with one hand, and grabbed her sandy boy with the other. “We’re going to the playroom!”

  One of the great qualities about kids was that they usually accepted sharp swerves in the activities of the day—because, really, what choice did they have? She stood him on the deck and brushed his clothes free of sand. She carried him and her laptop into the house and shut and locked the sliding door. She dropped her laptop on the kitchen table, rinsed her hands and Petey’s hands, and slid his sandals over his chubby feet. She grabbed her bag, his diaper bag, the car keys, and strode out the front door as if on a mission.

  Well, she was on a mission. She was going to help her husband. She was not going to sit in the sand daydreaming about Slade while Josh was working so hard to give them this perfect life. She buckled Petey into his car seat—he arched and wailed, as always—handed him some rubber toys, jumped into her own seat, keyed the sliding doors closed, and drove away from the house toward the gym.

  “We’re going to Judy’s Gym!” she reminded her son encouragingly. “Petey loves the playroom. It’s got so many toys, and lots of kids will be there, maybe Luke or Camden. Miss Amber will be there or Miss Caroline. You love Miss Caroline.”

  It took forty-five minutes to get to the gym, which was in a rural setting on the other side of Amherst, but once Petey heard Miss Caroline’s name, he stopped gibbering and settled down. To his great delight, and Morgan’s, it was Miss Caroline who watched over the playroom today. Short, round, and rather trollish, Miss Caroline greeted Petey with genuine pleasure, hugging him and carrying him off to show him the new backhoe they’d just gotten.

  Morgan gave herself a moment to enjoy the sight of her son bravely toddling around this place without his father or mother. Then she raced for the locker room. She shed her summer clothes and tugged on her exercise gear. She yanked her hair back in a high ponytail. She headed out to the equipment room, found a treadmill, jumped on, and began to walk.

  She’d forgotten to bring her iPod, but that was all right. Wide-screen TVs hung high on the walls of the gym. She focused on the news channel, but while it occupied her eyes, it was her own thoughts raging through her mind that accompanied her as she worked out.

  What was wrong with her?

  She knew what was wrong with her!

  She was not a natural mother. She adored her child, she even could foresee the day when she’d want to give him a brother or sister, but right now, day after day after day after day, with the conversation of a thirteen-month-old as her only society, she was going mad. Of course, she saw Bella as often as possible, but Bella worked at the shop six days a week, and spent most of her evenings with Aaron. She saw Natalie only when Natalie was through painting or drawing for the day and collapsed, happily exhausted, on her deck for a drink.

  She saw Josh, of course. He was her husband. Her companion. Her lover.

  Just not recently. Recently, he was all about his work. He left early for Bio-Green, came home too late for dinner, took a moment to peek in at his sleeping son, changed out of his suit into shorts and a tee, and disappeared into his study, tapping away on his computer. If Morgan happened to wander in, she saw how he closed whatever screen he was on in a flash, and he always looked perturbed by her presence. Some companion. Some lover.

  Still, she refrained from showing her disappointment. She knew he was pressured, anxious about his job and his ability to do it. She didn’t doubt that he loved her … most of the time. Sometimes when she called his office at BGI, and loquacious Imogene answered the phone only to chirp that Josh wasn’t there at the moment, a chill of dread snaked down Morgan’s spine. He was a desirable man, used to lots of adulation from high school and college athletics. Married life was not a daily challenge ending with victory, cheers, and praise. Was Josh looking somewhere else for the stroking he believed he deserved? Certainly he wouldn’t be the first man to do so.

  Dripping with sweat, huffing and puffing, Morgan clicked off the treadmill, stepped down on wobbly legs, and staggered over to the weight bench. This took more concentration, for which she was grateful; it made it impossible for her mind to continue on its own hamster-cage treadmill. She was strong and in good shape. She always had been. She’d enjoyed working out even before she’d been married to a workaholic. She used the rowing machine and the recumbent exercise bike until she was almost shaking with exhaustion. The gym had a gorgeous locker room with excellent showers and all the hot water you could ever need. When she came out of the gym with Petey in her arms, she was glowing with health and clean hair and skin. And she was starving.

  In the parking lot, next to her SUV, an old lady stood by the open door of her ancient Toyota. She wore a track suit, sneakers, and an expression of despairing confusion.

  It was the woman who had almost passed out on the treadmill in the gym. “Mrs. Smith?” Morgan approached her. “Are you okay? Can I
help you?”

  The woman sagged with relief and took a few steps toward Morgan. “It’s my car. I’m afraid it’s broken.”

  “Oh.” Morgan keyed open her own vehicle, dumped her purse and Petey’s bag inside, shifted Petey to her left hip, and walked around to stand next to the woman, peering into the car. “What’s the problem?”

  “It started, but then it just … stopped.”

  “You’re Mrs. Smith, aren’t you?” Morgan asked. “I’m Morgan O’Keefe. I met you a few days ago in the gym.”

  “Oh yes. Of course.” Mrs. Smith shrank into herself a bit. “You must think I’m a walking disaster.”

  “Not at all. Look, I know something about cars. Would you mind if I tried starting your car?”

  “Please.”

  Morgan bent down to slide Petey into the passenger seat, then settled in the driver’s seat. She shut the door. The car was immaculate inside and smelled like peppermints. The key was in the ignition. She turned it and scanned the dashboard.

  “Mrs. Smith, the problem seems to be that you’re out of gas.”

  “Really?” The older woman’s eyes widened, as if Morgan had imparted news of earth-shattering importance. “Oh dear.” She scanned the area, as if expecting a gas pump to rise up out of the ground. “Perhaps you could drive me to a service station?”

  Morgan smiled. In the back of her SUV, beneath the carpeted floor, was her automotive safety kit, complete with jack and lug wrench, spare fuses, tire sealant for minor punctures, jumper cables, kitty litter for ice, flashlight, first-aid kit, and a six-foot length of clear plastic tubing.

  “I can do better than that,” Morgan assured Mrs. Smith. “I’ll siphon some gas from my tank into yours. Enough so that you can drive to a gas station.”

  Mrs. Smith gawked, speechless.

  Morgan keyed open the back of her SUV. “If you’ll just sit in your car with Petey, I’ll have this done in a matter of minutes.”