“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. But, 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 gibberi
ng 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.”
She could see Petey in Mrs. Smith’s passenger seat, holding on to the door, bouncing up and down, exploring the unfamiliar door handles and buttons. The older woman settled in the driver’s seat and showed Petey how to lift the console lid in the middle.
“Petey.” Morgan knelt to face her child. “Mama’s going to move the car closer to Mrs. Smith’s.”
But Petey wasn’t concerned. Mrs. Smith had handed him her keys.
Morgan started up her SUV, and with the warning signal beeping because she hadn’t fastened her seat belt, she maneuvered her car so that its gas tank was just about two feet from the old Toyota’s. Her SUV was a good foot higher than the Toyota; this would work. She got out, opened the Toyota’s gas tank door, opened her own gas tank door, and threaded in one end of the clear hose. She held the other end in her hand and began to suck. The gas quickly rose. The second she saw it, she stuck her end in the Toyota’s gas tank. She watched the dark liquid flow downward. It didn’t take long. It didn’t have to. Mrs. Smith didn’t even need a gallon of gas to get to a station. After a minute or so, Morgan pinched the hose tight, yanked it from her car, and held it high, letting the excess flow down into Mrs. Smith’s tank. Then she pulled the empty hose from the tank, wiped it down with paper towels she carried in the car, and coiled it. She screwed on the gas caps and shut the doors. She cleaned her hands with antiseptic baby wipes.
“Now,” she called to Mrs. Smith, “try starting the engine.”
Mrs. Smith turned the key. The engine rumbled to life. Quickly she turned it off and scrambled out of the car. “You are a genius!”
“I have my moments.” Morgan opened the passenger door and lifted out Petey. “You’ll have enough gas to take you to a station now.”
“How can I ever thank you?” Mrs. Smith held out her hands helplessly. “If you hadn’t come along, I’d be out here broiling in the sun!”
Actually, Morgan thought, Mrs. Smith would have been in the air-conditioned gym office, waiting while someone arrived from a garage with a five-gallon container of gas. “It was nothing,” she assured Mrs. Smith. “I’m glad to help.”
“You know,” Mrs. Smith said, “you are.”
Morgan blinked.
“I am what?”
“You are glad to help. Just like the other day in the gym when I was having trouble on the treadmill. You are a person who likes to help other people. A very admirable quality. I am most impressed.”
Morgan flushed, surprised and shy at this sudden estimation of her qualities. “Well,
thank you. I’m glad—” She stopped herself. Mrs. Smith’s words had touched something sensitive, tender, and yearning deep inside Morgan’s soul. For a moment Morgan was afraid she was going to burst into tears. “Okay, then, we’ve got to get along. I’ll see you again here at the gym.” She lifted Petey’s arm. “Say bye-bye, Petey!” That was another thing babies were good for, providing distractions from conversation.
“Bye-bye.” Petey flapped his arm in a wave.
“Oh, but I feel so grateful,” Mrs. Smith called. “I’d love to repay you somehow for your kindness.”
“Don’t give it a second thought,” Morgan told her. “It was fun.”
The truth was, it was fun, Morgan thought. Was that pitiful? That she got a kick out of doing what she’d learned to do as a teenager when she crawled out her window one night to go joyriding with friends? Even now she could remember how thrilled she was that dark night, to learn how to siphon gas.
It was after noon, and she was starving, and Petey was crabbing away in his car seat. She drove into the center of Amherst, stopped near the Black Cow, hefted her son onto her hip, and ordered sandwiches and an iced latte to go. She handed Petey an oatmeal cookie to gnaw on while she drove through the labyrinth of roads into the heart of the U. Mass.–Amherst campus until she found a parking spot near the pond. Once more she unstrapped her big boy, clasped him on her hip, grabbed the paper bag of lunch goodies and the picnic blanket she carried stuffed under the seat. She locked the car and headed for a long strip of shade underneath the trees overlooking the pond.
Petey loved to eat. Once they got settled, he focused intensely on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which he took apart and licked, allowing Morgan to take a deep breath, sip her latte, enjoy her own sandwich, and gaze around at the college campus. It was like a city. A world. She had loved every campus she’d set foot on. The professors, the students, the residences, the ivy-covered towers of classrooms, the libraries, the labs, and especially the maintenance buildings that kept this world running. Funny thing about maintenance: It was essential, yet no one paid any attention to it; no one praised it, yet the most brilliant scholar couldn’t function without it. It was like motherhood, Morgan thought, grinning to herself.
Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze Page 140