by JoAnn Ross
She hadn’t seen his family since the wedding, but they still greeted her with hugs, then left the room.
She hesitated inside the doorway. Eric looked terrible. Gauze wrap covered the middle of his face, his legs were elevated with his feet wrapped, as were his hands. The doctor had also explained that while once surgery had been advised sooner than later, they’d discovered that led to complications. So now they waited until the dead skin sloughed away to decide on a further course of action.
“Hi,” she said. She washed her hands with the antibacterial foam from the container hung by the door, then held tight to the handle of her purse, as if it were a life preserver keeping her head above water in a stormy sea.
“Hi, yourself.” He sounded tired, which could be from the pain meds the floor nurse had explained were running along with fluids and antibiotics thought his veins. “Guess I really screwed up this time, didn’t I?”
“It was a whopper,” she agreed. “You had us all scared.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” The medicated Eric, the one she’d loved, had always meant that. The same way the unmedicated Eric always forgot it. “I talked to the doctor. He believes you won’t need surgery.”
“Yeah. They’ve got me in a warm whirlpool bath twice a day to help the dead skin slough off.” His eyes misted, making her own sting. “It reminds me of that hot tub we had at the house in Palo Alto. Remember?”
“I do. We had some good evenings there.” With music playing quietly and wine at the end of their workday.
“Bygones,” he said with a sigh. “It’ll take a couple to three weeks to know. But I could be in here as long as a month.”
“I’m sorry.” So, so sorry.
“You’re not going to be there when I get out, are you?”
All the emotions swirling in his eyes were echoed in her own heart. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head, swiped the tears that had begun to overflow onto her cheeks. “I just can’t. Not anymore.” She plucked a tissue from the box on the table and dabbed at her cheeks.
“I could tell you that I’d stay on my meds.”
She bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes.
“But we both know that’s not true,” he continued. “It’s like a drug. I need the highs. I suspect my sister, who appears to have escaped that particular gene, got her medical degree in psychiatry because of Dad and me.”
His father was a brilliant neuroscientist, who, her mother-in-law once admitted, when they’d moved into his parents’ basement for a month between jobs, had the same outbursts. But, she’d assured Amanda, they’d lessened as he’d gotten older.
“I suspect it’s a decrease in testosterone,” she’d said, taking Amanda’s hands in both of hers. “So it does get better.”
“That’s good. Not about, you know, your dad and your disease, but that Jan got that medical degree.”
“She thinks I’d do better in a controlled environment. She’s also looking for an attorney who’s won cases such as mine to keep me out of prison and in something like a resident home. But gated.”
Like a prison, Amanda thought. But so much better than the one the government would send him to. “I think that sounds like a good idea,” she said. “And I know you never believed it, but you really did think better when you were more stabilized.”
“That’s what Jan’s been telling me, having watched me all through school. But it’s not what my mind’s telling me. You know?”
Amanda nodded. Oh, yes, she had a wall covered with mathematical equations attesting to that.
“There’s something you need to know,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I always loved you. And despite what I’ve said and done over the years, I always will.”
“I know.” Her heart was breaking, her eyes were burning, but the rational part of her brain, the part she could hear everyone who cared about her saying, was reminding her that love wasn’t worth dying for.
She stepped closer to the bed and, not wanting to hurt him, with a touch as light as a feather, brushed her fingers against his cheek. “Good luck, Eric. I’ll always remember our good times. And you need to remember that you have so many people, including me, rooting for you.”
Then before she said anything that might give him hope, like telling her soon-to-be-former husband that a part of him, that funny young man who made her laugh and told terrible jokes and spun wonderful tales of the future they’d have together, would always hold a part of her heart.
She made herself walk, not run, from the room, then closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, the handrail digging into her back. It was all she could do to keep from sliding down that wall onto the immaculate clean tile floor.
“You did the right thing,” she heard a familiar voice say. Opening her eyes, through the blur of tears, Amanda saw Eric’s sister. “The only thing you could do. Now, I’m going to tell you something my parents never will, so you won’t weaken. My uncle, my father’s brother, killed his wife when I was eight years old. Then shot himself. On Christmas Day, which is why I hate this season and have always volunteered to work overtime so I don’t have to remember those twin caskets. I’d be in Oregon working today if this problem hadn’t sprung up. And it turns out Uncle Henry wasn’t the only suicide in the family. I love Eric. How could I not? He’s my brother. But I will never entirely trust him. Ever. And neither should you.”
That said, Jan surprised Amada with a quick hug, and said, “Get out of here. Go make a wonderful life for yourself because you damn well deserve it.”
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, Amanda was back in Honeymoon Harbor, having taken the ferry because she’d needed the time to separate from what she’d just done. Time to breathe. To stand at the rail, the cold wind of Puget Sound whipping at her hair and stinging her cheeks, clearing her head.
Now that she was going to be single, she could, she realized, go anywhere in the world. She could throw a dart at a globe and just take off. Go to Italy. Peru. Maybe even Iceland, which was supposed to be beautiful, although the growing season wouldn’t be very long there, which would prevent her from keeping a business she’d built literally from the ground up and loved.
As she saw the lighthouse come into view, followed by Brianna’s beautiful Herons Landing, Amanda watched the boats bobbing in the marina near the ferry landing and realized that she didn’t want to go anywhere. That she’d found her home. Or, more accurately, Eric had found it, but despite what had happened, it didn’t diminish the inner pull she’d felt when she’d first seen the town online. That she belonged here.
After driving off the ferry, Amanda still wasn’t quite ready to go back to the shelter residence where everyone would undoubtedly want to hear how her visit went. She wasn’t ready to talk about sad things yet. She wanted to savor this moment of freedom. Of coming home.
On impulse, she decided to stop at Mannion’s, intending to treat herself to a glass of wine. Quinn was behind the bar as she walked in. He greeted her with a slow easy smile that didn’t look as if he had any idea where she’d been or what she’d been up to, but she suspected he did know. There were no secrets in Honeymoon Harbor and Aiden was, of course, his brother and Quinn had also been at that interrupted Thanksgiving dinner.
“Well, welcome back,” he said as she climbed up on a stool. It may be foolish, but she always felt uncomfortable sitting alone at a table. “I saw you drive off the ferry and was wondering if you were going to come in here or Cops and Coffee.”
“Caffeine is that last thing I need after the last few days. I’ll take a white wine. A chardonnay.” She glanced around. “I like what you’ve done with the place. I hadn’t realized your talents extended to holiday decorating as well as microbrewing.”
“Cute, but unfortunately not all that original. I’ve been getting ragged about it from nearly every guy wh
o comes in. And I know that you know all this sparkly stuff was put up by Mom and Brianna because they bought those berries and ribbons for the tree from you.”
“I cannot lie. That would be true. But I did talk them out of the gold-and-white tulle draping around the bottom. And glitter.”
“That makes you a saint in my book. One chardonnay coming up.”
He opened a new bottle, a label that had her arching a brow at the price. Eric had almost ordered it once for a table of six in a Napa restaurant they couldn’t afford if it’d been just the two of them until one of the other men, who knew about wine, had suggested a less expensive merlot.
“It’s on the house,” Quinn said. “A rep from the winery dropped off a trial case the other day and you’re the first to weigh in on whether or not I should buy more.”
“I don’t know anything about wine tasting.”
“Neither do I. But you drink wine, so that makes you more of an expert than me.”
He poured the wine into the stemmed glass, then placed it in front of her on a white bar napkin.
She held it up. Studied it as if she knew what she was doing. It shone like sunshine in the light streaming in from the waterside window. “It’s got a good color.”
“That’s a start,” he said.
She swirled it around, sniffed. “I smell fruit. And vanilla.”
“Sounds good.”
She took a little sip. “There’s a hint of apple. With a touch of pear. And...” She tilted her head, took another sip. “Maybe a touch of passion fruit?”
“I’ll definitely push that on New Year’s, date nights and Valentine’s Day,” he said.
Yet a third sip. “And a finishing of crème brûlée from the oak.”
He lifted one of those Mannion Black Irish brows and said, “I thought you didn’t know your wines.”
“I don’t.” She surprised herself by bursting into laughter. How long, she wondered, had it been since she’d laughed? “I just remembered that being part of a description from a pretentious sommelier with a fake French accent in Napa.”
He grinned. “It still sounds impressive. How does it taste, really?”
“It’s really good. Even though I don’t have a clue what went into it.”
“The rep also gave me a fancy multipage binder with lots of photos explaining the process,” Quinn said. “I’ll check it out for any foodies who’ll want to know. In case you feel like a late lunch or early dinner, one of the Harpers brought in some fresh Dungeness crab an hour ago. Jarle’s planning to make chowder, and some other stuff, but tonight’s special is going to be crab fettuccini.”
“Sold,” she said. She hadn’t had an appetite for a week, but suddenly she was hungry. Even if that meal was a heart attack on a plate. The chef at Leaf, the vegetarian restaurant down the street where she more often ate, would probably keel over on the spot, just looking at it.
“Comfort food,” he said approvingly. “And, by the way, before you pass out at the price on the menu, it’s also on the house.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Hasn’t anyone told you? Everyone gets a dinner on the house for their birthday.”
“But this isn’t my birthday.”
His smile faded and his gaze gentled, touching her face like the lightest of butterfly kisses. Not a hitting on her or sexually suggestive way. But the kind meant to comfort a broken heart Amanda wasn’t certain could ever be fully put together again.
“Yeah. It is,” he said. Then turned and took her order into the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DECIDING THEY DESERVED a day off after yesterday’s busy market and all the stress they’d been through, Jolene and Gloria had started off a lazy Sunday morning in the apartment above the salon in pajamas, eating decadent chocolate chip pancakes that might have come from a box mix, but they had added the chips, chocolate sauce and canned whipped cream topping themselves. Afterward, they crawled back into bed where they indulged in a Christmas in Connecticut and Miracle on 34th Street double feature and agreed that for some reason movies seemed the most Christmassy in black-and-white.
Then, as the clock struck four, they realized they needed to start thinking about getting ready to go out.
“Did I mention I’ve forgotten how to date?” Jolene’s mother asked as she stood in front of a tall standing mirror Sarah had found for the bedroom at Treasures, the local antiques shop.
“You have. But by the way Mike looked at you at Thanksgiving, I seriously doubt that’ll be a problem, Mom.”
“I’m too old.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Haven’t you heard? Fifty is the new thirty.”
Gloria put her hands on the hips of her pink silk pajamas, that were a stark contrast to the comfy green tartan flannel ones Jolene had bought in Ireland. “I am not fifty.” She tossed her gloriously colored head in a diva-like way Jolene couldn’t pull off in a lifetime. “I happen to be in my midforties. As you well know.”
“Isn’t that when women are supposed to be in their sexual prime?”
“I’m not having sex with Michael Mannion.” She walked over to her closet and stood there, just looking at her clothes as if seeing them for the first time. “At least not tonight... I may be in my sexual prime but I’m old-fashioned enough not to sleep with a man on the first date. Which I may not even be going on, because I don’t have anything to wear.”
Said the woman with walk-in closet filled with clothes. “It’s going to be cold. You’ll be all bundled up. Dress warm. He already likes you. You don’t need to dress to impress.”
“I’m nervous.”
“You’re not alone. Want to sit together? Like a double date?”
“No. Because I don’t want to take private time away from you and Aiden. I’ll just put on my big girl panties, which are thankfully not granny panties yet, not that he’s going to see them, and let him take the lead.”
She sighed. “Caroline Harper is such a Southern belle. Even after all these years in the Pacific Northwest. Whatever her and Michael’s relationship was this past spring when she was separated from Ben, she probably always sparkled like Scarlett O’Hara charming the Tarleton twins at that barbecue before all those foolish men raced off to war.”
“Don’t be dramatic. Just be yourself. That’s the woman he asked out.” A thought occurred to Jolene. “Where are you going?”
“Luca’s. How about you?”
“Mannion’s.”
“They’ve divided to conquer.”
“You could be right about that. But I chose Mannion’s.”
“Seth and Brianna will no doubt be there. And, of course, Quinn. And a lot of people your age. My guess is he’s publicly staking his claim. The same way he did when he kissed you in front of everyone at Thanksgiving.”
“No one stakes a claim on me,” Jolene said.
“Why don’t you keep saying that,” Gloria suggested sweetly. “Perhaps one of these days you’ll believe it.”
* * *
IT WAS ALREADY dark when Aiden arrived at the cottage less than five minutes after Gloria, who’d opted for a fluffy white angora sweater and a pair of red wool slacks beneath a lipstick red parka and atypically flat-heeled suede boots, had departed the lighthouse apartment with Michael Mannion, headed to Luca’s Kitchen. From the way his blue eyes had lit up at the sight of her mom, she needn’t have worried about sparkling.
Jolene, who’d hadn’t had the time to get to the Dancing Deer to fully replenish her wardrobe, decided that the white fisherman’s sweater she’d bought in a little shop in County Clare, a pair of skinny black jeans and her Ireland boots with two pairs of wool socks, would have to do. Knowing the wind could come sweeping off the mountains, she put her hair up in a messy bun before spritzing a bit of cologne she’d created for herself while playing around with scents, into the air,
then walking through it. It was technique she’d learned from Kyan Douglas the grooming guru of the original Queer Eye whose makeup she’d once done for an appearance on a morning talk show. At the last minute she’d reached into a small box she’d carried with her all over the world for years, took out a necklace and fastened it behind her neck.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so nervous waiting for a man to pick her up. Then again none of those men had been this one, she thought as she’d opened the door to the sight of Aiden with those beautiful black curls, neon blue eyes and those lips that she wanted to feel all over her. His parka was open, revealing him casually dressed in a blue-and-black checked Pendleton wool shirt that accented the blue of his eyes, over a black T-shirt, dark indigo jeans, and brown leather lace-up boots that made him look a bit like a sexy lumberjack.
“You look gorgeous,” he said, taking her into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Since it certainly felt that way to her, she went willing.
“You look pretty good yourself.”
“You look a helluva lot better.” He nuzzled her neck. “You smell great, too. Like summer. You wore a gardenia cologne that summer, too.”
How had she forgotten that? And even more surprising, how had he remembered? She also realized that was undoubtedly why, while playing with oils, she’d come up with a scent that was far more over-the-top old Hollywood feminine than the fruity and green notes used in most perfumes today. But it had always made her feel sexy. Just as it did tonight.
Talk about giving a man mixed messages.
“It always reminded me of the glamorous, gilded age of Hollywood movie stars wearing a white gardenia in their hair with those backless and beaded body-hugging dresses with the plunging necklines.” His smile turned reminiscent. “Which is why I didn’t mind watching all those old black-and-white movies Mom liked so much. Looking back, they were sort of like training porn before I turned thirteen and Burke showed me where Quinn hid his Playboy magazines. Who knew back then that you’d end up in Hollywood?”