His light-colored cotton pants were topped by a tucked-in black polo. Casual but very presentable. He made a good appearance. After all, he was a swimmer and a builder. He hadn’t dressed up for her.
Good.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” Lizzie said what Megan should have.
After all the times she’d seen him, he still made her uneasy. “Oh, sure. Or, we can go on upstairs and see what you think of the next floor.”
He came further into the living room. “I thought we’d have lunch first since it’s noon and you promised to eat only a bagel.”
“It wasn’t a promise. I—”
“I’m kidding,” he said and she heard a bell clang.
The glance between Megan and Lizzie collided, but he grinned. “Sounds like our transportation has arrived.”
She glanced out the window and saw the brown horse and white carriage. “What?” That was all she could manage to say.
He lifted his shoulders. “I thought you deserved more than a simple thank-you for my new den. Shall we?”
She ignored his outstretched hand. Of course he didn’t expect her to take it. It was just a gesture to accompany his words. Too surprised to think of an excuse not to go, she walked toward him. Or was she pushed? She felt the tapping of Lizzie’s fingers on her back and heard a soft giggle.
Holding on to the curved iron railing as she descended the steps of her Jones Street home, she was also holding her breath. Then she gasped. “Carl?”
“My lady,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes and a lift of his top hat, exposing his gray hair.
“What are you—?”
He tried to look apologetic. “Noah came in last evening talking about a private tour and I volunteered. Told him I was like a daddy to you.”
“Thanks,” she said and meant it. Having Carl there made her feel more at ease. She’d told him about Noah, and it turned out that Carl knew his parents and their business.
She said the obvious. “I guess I don’t need to make introductions.”
“Hi, Carl,” Noah said, then made a slight bow and held his hand out to Megan. She took it for a moment, thinking it strong and smooth and capable, then stepped up and sat on the plush white leather seat.
Noah walked around to the other side. As he hopped up and settled beside her, Megan looked at the house again, seeing exactly what she expected. Lizzie stood at the window, her hand waving like a windshield wiper and her face wearing a toothy grin like a chimpanzee’s. She shouldn’t have looked.
“Gid-dy yup,” Carl said, and the brown mare did.
Megan looked at Noah. “What are you doing?” She lowered her voice. “Or...why?”
He said, “I thought I owed you a pleasant time after the last excursion.”
She knew he meant the time at the cemetery.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I feel that I do. Not from anything I’ve intended. But I remind you of Michael. I’m related to him. I spied on you. I live where he lived, even bought the house. I’m doing things to the house you would have done with Michael.”
Yes, he reminded her of Michael every time they had a conversation.
“The brochures say this is a perfect way to spend time in The Garden City.”
She chuckled. “I’ve repeated that enough times.”
“You said you love the history. So I thought we’d just drive through and you could enjoy the ride without having to talk about it.”
That was thoughtful of him. And rather creative. Had he been Michael, she would have thought it romantic. Yes, he reminded her of Michael.
“I’ve often thought I’d like to take the historical tours or just walk around—not talk at all, just absorb.”
“Then do,” he encouraged and leaned back in silence.
Megan thought of the squares where houses of many periods, buildings and lush landscapes blended uniquely together. She was absorbed.
As they rode along the squares she couldn’t help but think of it the way she explained it to tourists. This was the core of Savannah, Georgia, a National Historic Landmark since 1966. She could almost hear the spoken words about the series of neighborhoods, each wrapped around parklike squares and connected by straight streets. The median strips resembled linear forests.
She smiled as they passed a group of schoolgirls walking within a square where live oaks were draped with their banners of Spanish moss. Patches of sunlight mingled with dark-velvet shade.
A couple of girls carrying portfolios reminded her of days when she strolled along like that, ready to make sketches for a written report on Savannah’s history.
Like she’d told tourists, the squares with their benches and sculptures invite sitting and contemplating or just strolling along the brick walkways.
Although loving it, she could stay silent no longer. With a quick glimpse at Noah, who sat back as if enjoying the silence, she spoke as they neared Oglethorpe Square. “The first settlers were refugees from British debtor prisons. They were brought to above the Savannah River in 1733 to a barren, sandy bluff.” She inhaled deeply. “Just look at Savannah now.”
The slight turn of his lips made those appealing creases at the sides of his mouth. A gleam of silver sun and a sly look appeared in his eyes. “I might be able to tell you something you don’t know.”
She lifted her eyebrows as an invitation to try but was met with more silence. When they neared Chippewa Square he said, “Slow, if you will, Carl.”
His arm moved to behind her and against the back of the carriage seat. He leaned toward her, not touching but making her aware of his closeness.
“My ancestor came over with Oglethorpe.” His left arm extended as he pointed to the monument of James Oglethorpe. “He was one of the 113 who settled the colony that began building the community.”
She heard his words and kept her face turned toward the statue, but was aware of his hand that dropped to rest on the curve of the carriage seat. He continued to speak with pride. “Some of my ancestors went in different directions—cotton, fishing—but my immediate family have always been builders.”
She was surrounded by him and inhaled a faint fragrance of something akin to spice and musk, just enough to make her inhale more deeply, wanting more of the pleasant scent. When he talked, his breath was warm and teased the side of her face.
Her heartbeat quickened. Any movement from either would make them touch. So close, and yet so far away. The sound of silence was heavy except for the slow rhythm of the wheels and the clip-clop of horse’s hooves.
Slowly her head turned and his face was there, so close she couldn’t really see it until he moved back at the same time he withdrew his extended left arm and lay his hand on his pants leg. He looked as surprised as she felt.
Why did she feel as if they had...touched? His shoulders rose as he turned and leaned against the back of the white leather seat. His parted lips closed and his blue eyes gazed straight ahead as if history was there instead of on the sides of the street.
She turned her face from him and stared at the squares and statues. At history. Had he been Michael and she had turned toward him, his arms would have tightened around her. His lips would have found hers. At least in the early days, when he was happy to be with her.
Slowly she looked straight ahead, but her glance slid toward the light-haired man beside her. He was not Michael. Those were not Michael’s arms. Nor Michael’s lips.
Michael would have held her and she would have been the one to hold the reins, to say “whoa” at the proper time.
She’d thought he had loved her.
Now she wondered.
He was gone.
And she felt bereft.
But it didn’t last. It was that sweep of emotion that threatened. But it only threatened; it didn�
��t attack. It did not cause her chest to ache, her throat to tighten or her eyes to tear.
She could not wish those were Michael’s arms around her. Not for the arms of someone who abandoned her. The ache had likely been over the feeling of having been humiliated, abandoned, embarrassed.
Nothing happened here. Except she was sitting by someone who had reminded her of Michael. But he was not Michael. She took a deep breath and said cheerfully. “You probably know where Forrest Gump sat to eat his chocolates.”
“That’s something everyone should know.” He laughed. “Speaking of food—”
She laughed then. “Yes, chocolate is definitely food.”
“I have something else in mind.” He called up to Carl. “Carl, I think it’s our lunchtime.”
“Yes, sir.” Carl turned the carriage.
She figured they’d go to River Street to one of the many eating places. Instead they ended up at Paula Deen’s restaurant. Noah hopped out and went into the restaurant. Carl turned and said, “I like him, Megan. He’s like a grown-up version of Michael.”
“Maybe too much like Michael,” she said.
He gave her a fatherly look. “Does that make you like him too much? Or dislike him too much?”
She answered quickly. “I don’t like him too much. And I don’t dislike him. He’s just Michael’s cousin to me.”
Carl winked, then turned around again as Noah jumped up into the carriage with a market sack. “You want to eat in the carriage or go home?”
“Home,” she said.
Carl commanded, “Megan’s home, dobbin.”
Noah looked at her. “Have you done this before?”
She shook her head. “Have you?”
“Nope. This is a first.”
One might consider that romantic. But she didn’t. She knew it was just historic.
When they got back to Jones Street, she leaned forward to thank Carl. Noah came around and extended his hand to her in a gallant way. After all, that is the way it was done in historic times.
He bowed his head of sunlit hair and bent over her hand. But he didn’t press his lips to it. After all, this was not historic times. Her feet were solidly on the redbrick sidewalk and in the present moment.
Her glance shifted to Carl, who led the horse away.
Chapter 18
Noah had a divided mind about how Megan would react to this business lunch. Holding the sack of food he followed her into the kitchen. She seemed at ease. “I’ll get plates while you unload the food,” she said. “That trip worked up an appetite. And if anybody knows how to cook, it’s Paula Deen.”
“Agreed.” He opened the sack but stopped when she looked over her shoulder with a worried brow. She warned, “Don’t dare tell Willamina I said that.”
He laughed and relaxed somewhat, then felt more at ease when Lizzie walked in. “Do I smell chicken?”
“There’s plenty here,” he said. “Join us.” As if it was his kitchen.
Megan smiled and set three plates on the table.
Lizzie took utensils from a drawer. She shook her head. “I guess I can take a break from seeing if those Christian singles groups have any new guys that look halfway decent.”
“Halfway?” Noah said, putting the carton of fried green tomatoes next to the chicken.
“I’m desperate,” Lizzie explained while picking up the container of sauce. She removed the top and sniffed. “Ohhh, this is that sweet onion relish with roasted red peppers. Yummy. Where are those biscuits? I reckon they’re cheesy garlic.”
“What else?” he said, although he hadn’t known to special order them. “I opted for sweet tea.”
“Perfect,” Lizzie quipped. “When you’re invited to lunch, you shouldn’t have to make your own coffee.” She gave him a superior look. “Or tea.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he teased and pulled out the desserts, a sampling of Paula’s famous “gooey gutter-cake” and pecan pie.
“But really,” Lizzie said. “I’ll just go back to my little corner of the bedroom while you two eat.”
“No way,” both Noah and Megan said at the same time.
Lizzie nodded. “I figured you were smart enough to say that.”
“Pray for us?” Megan asked, which pleased him. He offered a short prayer. He was glad Lizzie joined them. She had a forthright way of putting others at ease and making them laugh.
After they made some general comments and mentioned the upcoming wedding, he felt comfortable enough to ask, “By the way, what was that private joke Symon and Annabelle have about the creek?” At Megan’s grin, he said, “Or is it too private for me to know?”
“Not at all.” Megan laughed and told about Annabelle and Wesley having taken for granted that they would marry. Their families expected it. Then Symon, as the caretaker’s son, had returned to the cottage. He and Annabelle tried to be just friends, but one day when Symon was fixing a washed-out area on the bank of the creek, he tried to rescue his lame dog, Mudd, who had run from SweetiePie, and he fell in. Annabelle had followed SweetiePie down to the creek. When Mudd climbed out he began to shake. Annabelle tried to get away, but she slipped in the mud and fell into the creek.
Her face was animated. “He tried to catch her, and both ended up sitting in the creek. Without meaning to, they kissed.” She sighed and seemed to have a look of longing. “Not once, but twice. So romantic.”
He could imagine the kiss being romantic. But the creek? “Wasn’t that kind of cold?”
“No.” Her face was dreamy. She looked...kissable. “Love, I think,” she said, “is warm.”
“I’ve taken out a couple women since returning to the States and you’re right. Being close is warm. But I don’t think I’d kiss either of them in the creek.”
“Then maybe that wasn’t love,” Lizzie said.
“No, it wasn’t,” he could say quickly. “It was just...relating.”
Megan laughed. “That was the day Mudd and SweetiePie became friends, too. They were in the creek together. That was SweetiePie’s bad hair day.”
He saw her glance at his hair then look away. Was she thinking of the characteristic both Michael and he were noted for?
He shook the thought away. “Now I understand a little better why the creek is so important to Symon and Annabelle.”
Megan nodded. “It’s so romantic that they have such a dramatic conversation piece to relate about their being in love. They hadn’t admitted it and still didn’t for a while. But that kiss was the defining moment.”
She shrugged, looked a little uncomfortable and turned her head. Was she thinking of a defining moment with Michael? Or would she like to have a defining moment? He supposed women thought that way. Actually, he wouldn’t be disinclined to having a defining moment himself.
His thought had to stop there. He focused on the knife Lizzie was wielding to cut the desserts into small pieces so they could all have some of each.
After lunch he went upstairs with Megan.
“We haven’t used the upstairs in many years.” The stale air said as much. “Of course, there were exceptions. Guests. College friends. Special groups. Things like that. Lizzie, Annabelle and I lived downstairs.”
She showed him each bedroom, mentioned that one between two might be divided to make a small sitting area for each room. There might be a small balcony added to the rooms at the back of the house. Steps and an outdoor entry could be added for the upstairs rooms in case a guest came in late.
She looked at him for his comments. “It’s certainly doable,” he said. “None of it hurts the basic structure. Sitting rooms and a balcony will enhance. More inviting than four walls.”
She smiled, seeming to like what he was saying.
“But you had said you weren’t sure. Are you now?”
>
She hesitated. “I’m not positive. But I’m sure enough to want plans and information on what it entails, including cost.”
“Of course,” he said. “Um, just wondering. Would you operate the B and B? Live here?”
“I don’t know. I’m not too keen on having strangers in my house, so it would mainly be for those I screen or know about. I mean, friends of ours might like something like this. Parents of friends. Aunt B knows everybody. Symon is planning conferences, and he often has businesspeople come in. After he’s married, he might prefer their staying at a B and B instead of in the cottage or at Aunt B’s.”
He nodded, understanding.
“So,” she said. “I don’t know if I’d continue to live here.”
As they walked back down the hallway and descended the stairs, she continued with her ideas. “Even if I don’t decide on a B and B, I will probably want the changes made. It would be more appealing to friends who come to visit.”
She invited him out into the pleasant backyard and gestured to a grassy spot near the house. “That might be the perfect place for an outdoor fireplace with a stone seating area. I’d like that for myself, whether or not this is a B and B.”
“And the changes will increase the value considerably in case you ever want to sell.”
“Not likely I would. After all,” she grinned, “it has historic significance.”
He stepped back, stood near a towering magnolia and studied the house, visualizing the addition of a patio, balconies and an outside entrance.
That divided mind of his was working, too. If she turned the Jones Street house into a B and B and Michael returned, is this where they would live? As far as he knew, all Michael had was a car. He couldn’t have made much money as a tour guide. His mom had paid his college expenses and let him live in her house. But what did Michael have to offer a woman?
Of course he knew.
Who would want a man because he had a house, a job, a bank account? Even Lizzie, who seemed intent on finding a man, had said a few from the dating service seemed to have everything but nothing clicked between them.
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