A wave broke and a sudden gust of wind sent a spray of water into his face. She shrugged and grimaced apologetically. He was oblivious to the smile he sent her in return.
It wasn’t half bad, sailing open waters in something the size of a standard bathtub. As a matter of fact, the ride was so smooth that if he didn’t think about it, he could think of other things.
For example, he couldn’t get over his impression that she was perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever come across. It was ludicrous. His women were generally of the ravishing variety—strikingly attractive faces, luscious bodies, benign personalities. The nicest thing he could say about Harriet Wheaton was that she was a troublemaker with an ordinary body and an interesting face.
Still, his fingers were itching to touch her. When their eyes met there was a peculiar clutching in his belly that he couldn’t remember experiencing since his high school days. There was even a strange euphoric sensation in his chest when he’d catch glimpses of her with the wind in her face and the excitement of sailing in her dark, dark eyes. It was very queer.
“Jovette Island is up ahead there,” she called to him over the sound of rushing wind and lapping waves. He turned to look. “When we’re close enough, we’ll come about to get a better view of the house.”
The island was almost a mile long at its furthest points and forty acres at its widest. Like most of the other one thousand eight hundred-odd islands in the strait, its slopes were thickly quilled with pines and hardwoods. And along with so many of its neighbors, it had become part of a playground for the rich in the late eighteen hundreds.
Payton had all the data. Jovette Island boasted a soaring Victorian manor with twenty-three rooms, eight bathrooms, jutting towers and turrets, a veranda and a gazebo. But its history went back further than the house’s architecture for it also had a small log cabin preserved on the northeastern, the Canadian, side of the island.
The house had a two-color slate roof and was dark olive-green, trimmed in gold and terra-cotta on the bargeboards, scalloped friezes, and porch brackets, with just a touch of Indian red here and there for accent.
“Those are the original colors, aren’t they?” he asked, turning to look at her with some degree of respect.
He was certainly no authority, but somewhere along the way, he’d heard that most Victorian homes had been painted white in later years to impress people with their unique lines and size. However, true Victorians, were not only colorful in their thinking and in their life styles, but also in the tints they applied to their homes.
“Yes, they are,” she called back, equally impressed with his knowledge of Victorian architecture. He had nice hands, too, she noticed distractedly. Big hands. If he were to touch a woman with those hands, the woman would know it, from the roots of her hair to her toenails, she’d know it. “My father did it,” she said abruptly.
“What?”
“The house was white once,” she said. Making a sweeping gesture with her hand, she added, “Like all the others. But my father was a bit of an amateur historian. And of course he came to love the house, so he restored it after my mother died. People said he was crazy to paint it those colors, but I love it.”
“Why after your mother died? Wouldn’t she have approved?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I always thought it was more a matter of not wanting to hurt her feelings by changing too many things on the island. ... It was her island, you see. Then it was mine.”
“Not your father’s?”
“He wasn’t a Jovette.”
“Neither are you.”
She laughed. “It’s a blood thing. My ancestors were French,” she shouted over the wind and water, grinning. “Blood’s very important to the French, you know.”
“Well, I do now,” he said, shaking his head and turning back to look at the house, revamping it in his mind.
With no little skill, she maneuvered the tiny boat into irons, into the wind, several boat lengths from the dock and let the wind act as a brake, bringing it to a standstill close to the mooring rings. He jumped out while she brought the sail down and then tossed him a line.
“So? Are your shoes wet?” she asked, coming to stand next to him on the dock. They both looked down at his still shiny—and still dry—shoes. “I’m glad I didn’t say anything about your hair or your jacket.”
He looked up into her eyes and felt the clutching in his abdomen again. He knew an overpowering urge to reach out, grab her into his arms, and kiss the smirk off her face—and then he wanted to slap himself back to his senses. Was he losing his mind?
“They’re not too bad,” he admitted, checking both jacket and hair with one hand. Then, feeling incredibly magnanimous, he added, “You’re a fine sailor.”
“Thank you,” she said, pleased by his praise.
They stood on the dock, staring hard at each other for a long moment before an awkwardness set in and they looked off in different directions.
“I ... I suppose we could start the tour here,” she said, pointing. “The boat house has three slips. It’s weather tight. The roof was new four years ago.”
“What about this dock?” he asked.
She shrugged, and he watched her eyebrows raise in that intriguing little quirk of hers.
“The piling’s been the same for as long as I can remember, though I recall my father replacing some of the boards after a storm once or twice.” She stomped her foot twice. “I believe it’s very solid.”
He nodded, and she turned to lead the way up to the house. The dock ended at a small rock ledge cut into the side of the hill. From there, broad, shallow steps had been carved into the granite foundation of the island in a zigzag, forming an S to the top of the bluff.
All along the path the shrubs and trees grew thick and plentiful, and he imagined that in the warmer months the underbrush would be lush and lavish as well. The deciduous trees stood tall and ancient and bare of life at the moment, but they, too, added only splendor to the possibilities he was envisioning.
A low rock wall circled the cliff that looked down on the cove sheltering the boat house and dock from harsh weather. Between it and the flagstone patio in front of the house was an entire field of neatly clipped grass and carefully tended flower gardens.
“I accept your apology,” he said, looking around with an appraising eye.
“For what?” she asked, startled.
“For not asking me here in the summer or fall, when this place must be spectacular.”
She smiled, again affected by his praise.
“We call it the Bride’s Garden because the women of my family have always tended it, and until my mother, of course, all the women came here as brides.”
“No male heir, huh?” he said, walking across the lawn toward the house.
“Well, yes, there was a son before my grandfather died. But my mother’s brother was killed in Germany during World War II, and my grandmother, a Jovette by marriage herself, had no one else to leave it to but my mother.”
“Then she married a Wheaton, and the island eventually came to you.”
“Right.”
“And up until you, it’s always belonged to a Jovette?”
“Since the early sixteen hundreds, yes.”
He stopped cold. “That’s over three hundred years.”
She turned grave eyes on him. “I know that, Mr. Dunsmore.”
Attempting to hang on to a legacy that was three hundred years old would undoubtedly be an awesome responsibility—certainly one he found difficult to imagine, his own family being a mishmash of steprelatives and in-laws. There was a tightening in his chest, and he encountered a wave of sympathy for her before he pushed it aside and reminded himself that her indebtedness was none of his doing.
“You know,” he said slowly, his expression wary. “I’d be reluctant to mention this, except that I’m sure it’s already occurred to you, but with everything else you’ve done to interfere with the sale of this island, why didn’t you tr
y to get it declared an historical landmark?”
She shook her head and started across the stone terrace to the front door. “I’d have to open it to the public, and then it might as well be a resort.” She spoke as if resort were another name for Den of Iniquity. “It’s a home, Mr. Dunsmore. Not a tourist trap.”
He could have let her comments pass, he had a vague understanding of her feelings for the place, but ...
“I don’t know,” he said, stepping into the house behind her and taking a slow appreciative survey of the spacious foyer, the graceful curve of the staircase to the second floor, the highly polished antiques. “I don’t seem to be having any trouble seeing this as a small, intimate lobby ... maybe a quiet little bar in this room over here and ... How big is the dining room, Ms. Wheaton?”
Bristling, she turned to him. Amber sparks of anger flashed in her eyes and did strange things to the rhythm of his heart. Reflex snapped her head up straighter on her neck and proud indignation stretched out her spine to a new height. It was a stance that inspired admiration.
“I wouldn’t count my hotels until the neon sign goes up, Mr. Dunsmore,” she said, hoping the fear and dread she was feeling wasn’t evident in her voice. “I have every intention of persuading you to leave Jovette Island unmolested.”
“Unmolested, Ms. Wheaton? Have you thought that I might be the one to save this place from ruin?”
“Does it look ruined to you, Mr. Dunsmore?”
“Not yet. But if you can’t pay the taxes and you’re behind on the mortgage payments, how do you plan to keep up the maintenance?”
“I’ve told you before,” she said, shifting her weight uncomfortably, loath to discuss her finances with a stranger. “I can pay the taxes, catch up on the mortgage payments, and maintain this place, but I need time. Just a little time.”
“Planning to win the lottery?”
“Where the money comes from isn’t your concern. All I want from you is an open mind while you hear me out and your promise to stall the sale of the island for the next two or three months.”
He took in a deep breath and contemplated her with many misgivings. Damn, what if she was planning to rob a bank for the money she needed? She’d end up in prison again. Somehow the idea disturbed him deeply.
“Okay. Give it your best shot,” he said, sober and to his own amazement, sincere. “Convince me that I don’t want this place.”
With dogged steps he followed her up the stairs, resigned to the next couple of hours of whining and complaining. The roof would leak like a sieve, the support beams would have wood rot, and she’d be sure to mention the wall mice that scurried about at night. It was going to be a long afternoon.
“All the wainscoting is original, of course. My father was one of those men who couldn’t sit still and relax for more than ten minutes, so he’d come here and fiddle,” she said, topping the stairs. “He hung the wallpaper in the foyer and in this hallway about four years ago. I think he must have redecorated every room in this house at least twice since he and my mother married.”
“And in keeping with his standing as an amateur historian, he’s kept his renovations as authentic as possible,” he concluded, running his hand over the pink-and-silver-striped paper above the dark polished wainscoting.
She smiled, pleased with his astuteness. He was very discerning about many things, she noticed. Would he be as intuitive and insightful as a lover? she wondered absently.
A lover? But her scheme wasn’t designed to go that far. ...
He followed her around the curve of the banister that looked down into the foyer.
“This was my parents’ room,” she said, opening a door at the end of a large semicircle.
That’s when it started. She led him from room to room meticulously pointing out amenities, throwing dustcovers off priceless antiques, itemizing verifiable details of the house that had been maintained in perfect working order, where modern conveniences had been installed and why.
“My great-grandfather had very poor eyesight, and no matter how high they turned the gaslights, he’d keep bumping into things and tripping,” she informed him. “We never did have a cable run out from the mainland, so there’s no telephone. But there is a small generator for the electricity. It was replaced about ten years ago, I guess. I’d have to check for sure, but it still runs like a top. Starts right up, every spring.”
The second floor consisted of a small sitting room connected to the master suite—“... my mother’s mother suffered with bouts of ‘melancholia’—though I suspect it was more in line with PMS as she wasn’t ever committed or anything, and it is a rather nice term for it, don’t you think? Anyway, she spent hours at that window, staring out at the river, and my mother would have to come here to see her ...”—and bathrooms—“... Benny Goodman slipped on some wet tiles in here once, threw his back out, and had to spend the rest of his visit in bed. ...”—and a variety of bedrooms—“... when the Roosevelts came for the weekend, they always asked for this room. He liked to keep an eye on our neighbors to the north.”
“And which is your room?” he asked with an immoderate and irrational curiosity he couldn’t begin to explain, even to himself.
“There,” she said with a nod. “On the end.” Following him, she added, “Before it was mine, it was my mother’s. Before that it was her father’s. And before him, his father’s.”
He opened the door to a large southeast room with a huge bay windowseat. Unlike some of the other rooms with their heavy, dark Victorian colors, Harriet’s room was done in light, airy colors with a profusion of lacy ruffles and thick soft pillows. It was also the only room he’d seen so far that looked lived-in. There were open books and papers on the desk, while dolls, fans, floppy hats, pictures, and other personal articles were set about. And there was a distinct feminine fragrance, unlike the scent of dust and old wax that permeated the other rooms.
A few brazen steps took him into the room where he scanned book titles and photographs, picked up a music box, examined it, and set it back down, then ran a hand along the elegant white ruffle of the canopy over her bed.
“You don’t seem the frilly type,” he said casually.
A smile tugged at her lips. She glanced about, seeing the familiar surroundings through his eyes, and then chuckled.
“I’m afraid I was a grave disappointment as a girl, for both my parents,” she said with only pleasure in her voice. “My mother always hoped I’d carry on the Jovette tradition of being a social butterfly, but I took after the Wheatons and was introverted and bookish. And my dad always saw me as a sweet, shrinking, prissy little indoor thing instead of a nature girl who liked to fish and sail and get filthy in the gardens.”
“And their disappointment amuses you,” he concluded, fascinated by the faraway look in her eyes and the lopsided smile on her lips.
“No. Of course not,” she said, startled. She stood by the door, waiting to close it, hoping that his inspection of her private space was over. “It wasn’t like that. It was never a point of contention between us. All they truly ever wanted for me was to be happy and to be ... whoever I was meant to be.”
“And who were you meant to be, Harriet Wheaton?” he asked, walking toward her, stopping directly in front of her, standing close enough for her to see flecks of gold in his green eyes and to fill her head with the spicy scent of his after-shave.
He watched her eyes grow large and unblinking as she stared at him. She swallowed nervously, and he felt a rush of excitement. His gaze lowered to her barely parted lips, then to the erratic jumping of the pulse point at the base of her neck, then back to her mouth. His muscles tensed. An unexpected anticipation of pleasure rattled his bones.
She gave a slight shrug. Her throat felt dry and tight when she uttered, “I guess I was meant to be Harriet Wheaton.”
“And who is Harriet Wheaton?” he asked. Could she possibly taste as sweet as she looked? he added silently.
Her brows rose, and she shrugged again in
a fashion that was clearly her own.
“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you, Mr. Dunsmore. It’s better if you find out for yourself.”
Was that a dare he saw in her eyes? A challenge? The notion came and went so fast, he couldn’t say for sure.
“Okay,” he said, wanting to believe that he’d seen the gauntlet go down. “But I should warn you, I’m extremely thorough in all my ventures. It’s one of my few virtues.”
She grinned at him, unconcerned.
“What?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion when he saw her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip to keep her thoughts from escaping.
“It’s nothing really,” she said, attempting to close the door, forcing him onto the walkway above the foyer. “It’s just that I had a feeling that if I kept at it long enough, I’d discover that you had at least one virtue.”
“Very cute,” he said, finding it impossible not to return her teasing grin. “But hardly the best way to win my support.”
“Am I convincing you then?” Her expression was hopeful—and singularly appealing.
He took a deep breath. She smelled like wind and sunshine.
“Let’s finish the tour,” he said. He could see that she hadn’t taken his answer as a flat-out no, which was what it should have been, he thought, not wanting to lead her on and for some tangled reason, not wanting to be too blunt or too brutal with her either.
But she wasn’t convincing him not to take over her island. On the contrary, she was making it look like a better deal than he’d hoped for.
They were making their way back along the wide walkway to the center of the semicircle of doors when a childhood memory dropped from out of nowhere and hit him hard in the chest, like a anvil.
There were halls in the house he’d grown up in. Long empty halls like the one he was in now. And doors. Locked doors. He blinked, and he was a small boy, awakening from a nightmare, crying and frightened. He slips from his bed, afraid of the dark, more afraid of being alone. His bedroom door opens to more darkness, deeper and darker than what is behind him. The hallway is cold. He knows that if he were quieter, if he never made any noise at all, that his mother’s room would be closer to his, instead of down the hall. He walks softly. He’s not a very good boy. Mommy will be upset if he wakes her up. But if he’s alone, the scary things in his room will get him. It’s a very long hall, a forever hall—and there might be something following him. He walks faster. His heart races. Mommy’s door! ... is locked. He turns to face the darkness. He blinks again.
The Trouble with Magic (Loveswept) Page 2