"You're thinking again.” They'd waded across the stream to Nick's island and were passing through a stand of trees. He waved a hand at the view ahead of them. “You're supposed to be looking."
The grove they'd entered was thick and lush. The dense foliage on the trees was dark, deep green. Wild grape vines cascaded from high branches while yellow-green ferns reached skyward from the forest floor. A clearing—a symmetrical circle of velvety grass—was lit by sunlight. She took a step forward and caught her breath. “It looks like a scene from a fairy tale."
"And you, fairy princess, may take the seat of honor.” Nick preened, as if he'd created the spot himself. Smiling at his sweet sense of pride, she seated herself on the soft grass and watched as he set out hearty sandwiches. Cee felt herself blush at the sight of the buns ... and other delicious foods. Pickles, olives, potato salad from the camp store, barbecue chips, fresh strawberries, and cream-filled snack cakes. She needn't have worried about the basket being light, or about going hungry. “You brought an entire feast."
"You ain't seen nothin’ yet.” Reaching into the hamper, he produced a corkscrew for the wine he took from the cooler, plus two stemmed, pink plastic glasses. She'd never realized a man could be so thoughtful. He'd taken great pains to make everything perfect, for her. Cee batted back tears and he studied her curiously. “I thought you'd be happy."
Hadn't he ever seen a woman touched to tears before? “I am impressed, thrilled, and totally awestruck."
Nick's blue eyes sparkled, and she bit her tongue to keep from adding, “and smitten.” He was the most appealing man she'd ever had the pleasure of meeting. More romantic than she dreamed existed.
His smile was quicksilver. “One more thing. Wait here."
Sunlight peeked through the shade trees to dapple the picnic spread before her. It warmed her skin and shimmered the wine in stemmed glasses. It was all so dazzling and unreal that Cee closed her eyes, half-expecting the magical, romantic setting to disappear, but hoping that nothing changed. It was perfect.
When she opened them, slowly, holding her breath, the foliage was parting. Nick, blue eyes tender, thrust a bunch of dew-kissed violets into her hand, kneeling to kiss her.
* * * *
CEE PUSHED NICK'S damp hair back, smoothing the sides into place. He'd looked so confused when she watered the violets with her tears; she wished she could make it up to him. “I had a wonderful time,” she said softly.
He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. They'd made it home safely, but not without getting wet again. A downpour caught them before they got to their snack cakes. They were dipping strawberries in wine, feeding them to one another, when thunder rumbled in the distance, and they looked up to see the patch of sky above them had turned dark. They'd just had time to throw everything in the basket when the rain came.
Running, laughing, they huddled in the thick grove of trees and watched it rain torrents. Lightning flashed on the far side of the lake, over New Beginnings, but the safari side escaped the storm. Cee felt marooned with Nick, and happy. Oak leaves bobbed and dripped. An occasional acorn fell. A chipmunk chattered.
A summer storm, it lasted no more than twenty minutes, and Cee hated to see it end. Walking back past the clearing where they'd seen the deer and the spot where they'd built a campfire to dry their clothes, she wished she could relive it all.
The thick stand of trees on the “island” kept them relatively dry, but a fine mist continued to fall as they walked through the woods and rowed home. Just as they reached camp, the sun popped through. Glistening hot and golden, it reflected off the puddles, and then a rainbow appeared. Like the signature piece of an old movie, it blazed across the sky, signaling the end to a perfect safari.
"It's too soon to call it a day,” Nick said, brushing her lips with his.
She nodded her agreement, and after tying up the boat, he led her to their picnic table at the top of the hill. “Wait here."
Seconds later, he returned with a Daffy Duck tee shirt that he used to wipe the picnic table. Since then, they'd sat on the table top, close together, watching raindrops shimmer on the trees. Listening to birds call. Inhaling the scent of wet pine needles and grass. Nick lifted her hair, his warm fingers brushing her neck, sending delicious shivers down her spine. “You should dry your hair before you catch cold."
She didn't want to leave him that long. The sun would soon drop in the sky, bringing an end to a perfect day. She had no regrets but wondered what might have happened if it hadn't rained. If they'd finished the wine and lay back on the blanket, side by side, would he have kissed her? Caressed her? “It's so long and thick, it takes forever to blow dry. When I was a kid, I had it cut short every summer before going to camp."
Nick traced her cheekbone with his forefinger. “You have such a tiny face, I'll bet you look pretty with short hair."
She'd never known a man who listened and thought about what she said. He was sensitive. And yet, so masculine. The scent of his damp body wound itself around her. Very male, and very sexy.
She hadn't worn her hair short since the day she turned thirteen and her father said he was rearing a young lady and it was time to look like one. Picking up the phone, he canceled the appointment for her summer ‘camp cut.'
Even now, Daddy, who still wanted to run her life, would have a fit. And Harry had hated short hair on women.
* * * *
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU want me to cut your hair.” Nick stood in C.J.'s kitchen. She sat in front of him on a chair. “These aren't even cutting shears. You asked if I had scissors."
"Do you have shears?"
"No, but—"
"Then, those scissors will have to do."
"You could make an appointment at a beauty shop."
"I might change my mind."
"That's the idea. You should reconsider."
"You said I'd look good with short hair."
"You'd look good any way. Besides, there are beauty parlors where you don't have to wait. Barbershops."
"Start cutting."
Nick clicked the scissors nervously. He'd persuaded her not to follow him home when she sent him after them. If she saw Isadora, she'd think he was a lunatic. As it was, he wondered about C.J.'s sanity. “How do you want it styled?"
"However you think that it would look good."
"If you're going to say this was my idea..."
"I won't blame you if I don't like it.” She turned around to jab a finger in his chest. “But I will be disappointed if Mr. Free Spirit chickens out on this."
"Being free-spirited doesn't mean crazy,” he grumbled, but it did mean, for him at least, rising to a challenge. The same as a writing bet. He clicked the scissors noisily and instead of bolting off the stool, C.J. straightened expectantly. She really wanted him to do this. He'd watched Dell's mom trim her French poodle once, but he'd never actually snipped hair, animal or human.
Nick closed his eyes against the vision of a dog and pictured the photo he'd taped on the mop. The model's face was oval with features much like Celeste's. Her hair lay in wisps around her face and on her neck. Snip. A large lock of hair fell from his scissors. Snip. Another piece.
"I can't wait to see how I'll look,” C.J. said breathily.
No fears. No qualms. She trusted him completely, and Nick's heart swelled with the beauty of it. He couldn't let her down. As lock by lock fell onto the floor, he felt a sense of confidence and calm he'd never felt before. She believed in him. If he could do this, he could write a romance novel. “You'll look...” Like the heroine in a love story. “Beautiful."
"I look like a pixie,” C.J. said when Nick handed her the mirror. Not knowing if that was bad or good, he eyed her uneasily, the scissors still hot in his hand. A big pile of hair lay on the kitchen floor. If Isadora had brown hair with blonde highlights, he could have replaced the mop's yellow sponge strings with the real thing. He'd given Isadora blonde hair, but in retrospect, brown was beautiful. He touched C.J.'s freshly shorn locks.
“I can't believe you did such a great job,” she said, leaning her cheek into his hand.
"Me neither.” She liked it. He released his breath in a smile. “You look like a model."
She looked in the mirror again, knitting her brows. She liked it, he told her she was beautiful, and now, she looked worried. He'd never understand women. She was loosening up some. Her spices were in mixed order, and a flannel robe lay on the floor, half-under a chair. Maybe she needed time to get used to her hair. She turned her head this way and that, and he tried not to watch.
A mystery by a guy who'd lost his imagination and was resting on his laurels lay beside her toaster. Since none of Nick's books had made the bestseller list, it was unlikely she'd read them. But, he thought smugly, she didn't know what she was missing until she'd been around the block with Charlie, his P.I.
A Rolodex sat open. Nick stepped closer to read the name on the card. Mimi Vonderheide, Junior Guild President. C.J. is a socialite?
"You don't think this hairstyle is too kiddish?"
Nick jerked his gaze from the card file but needn't have worried. She was still looking in the mirror. “It makes you look younger, if that's what you mean, but that's not bad, is it?"
Her mouth dropped open, and she stared harder, touching the corners of her eyes. “Looking younger is good unless ... you think I looked old before.” She raised her face to him.
"Why would you say that?” Lifting her chin with his fingertip, he rubbed noses with her. “You looked beautiful before, and young, and still do. What are you worried about?"
"Nothing. No one.” Color rose to her cheeks, and she looked away.
Was there someone she worried might disapprove? Someone back home she'd return to soon? Cutting C.J.'s hair had cut close to his soul, but now, Nick wondered, if he was a fool.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Four
NICK SIDESTEPPED A PUDDLE on his trailer floor to boot up his computer and start a pot of coffee. C.J.'s parting kiss was warm and the night was hot, but a chill had settled over him. Was she in love with someone? Cutting her hair was a personal act that touched him in a scary kind of way.
He'd felt like the emperor with no clothes ever since he met Celeste Joy ... who? He didn't even know her last name, and she'd made him vulnerable as hell. The magazine picture he'd taped on Isadora must have burned into his memory because the haircut he gave C.J. was just like it. She'd been sexy enough before but now...
Nick stepped over another puddle to look out the window. A light burned in her kitchen. After hauling him out of the water, he hoped she'd be tired and content to spend the evening curled up with her book. He'd like to curl up with her by the water's edge and watch the moonrise. “But I have to write,” he told Isadora, as he wiped up the puddles with a rag. The lady met his comment with unblinking concern.
A sane man would use a mop. Not talk to it.
He hadn't called his dad for two weeks, maybe three. Last time they talked, he said, “If you'd work for me, you could live comfortably and put a decent roof over your head.” Dad had never set foot inside the trailer to know it leaked. The roof bit was a figure of speech that preceded his standard lecture on responsibility. He wasn't irresponsible. Sure, he'd knocked around a bit, but he'd made enough money to get by, and most importantly, he'd done it on his own. He wasn't bound to his father or anyone else. His father lived to work. Nick worked enough to live, and writing for a living was enjoyable until he tried to write a romance.
His book was moving along now, since he'd met his neighbor, and even though C.J. was a distraction, he'd made progress writing at night when she was in bed. But not enough to catch him up to where he should be. So he'd promised himself he'd peck out the rest of the current chapter this evening. Now, he wished he didn't have to.
Have to sounded like he was bound to his job, and that wasn't good. He paced a few steps to the front window. A woman across the road was playing ball with a small boy. Nick didn't know enough about kids to guess the boy's age, but he couldn't be more than three years old. The mother wasn't one of those teenage moms. She was probably as old as him and C.J.
The child caught a couple of throws, missed a few, and then running too fast, tripped over his own feet and fell. The woman knelt to ruffle his hair and cuddle him to her. She kissed the knee he'd hurt, and the little boy wiped away his own tears and smiled. Lucky kid. His mom knew what he needed. The skinned knee didn't hurt as bad as his feelings. He felt like he was a loser and he'd failed her, and she'd let him know it didn't matter.
Nick dug a chocolate donut out of a sack and plopped himself on a chair. He'd tried to never disappoint his mother. She was so loving and so much fun. When she left, he'd wondered what he could have done to make her run away. Then, Dad caught him crying one night and said it wasn't Nick's fault. It was his. It was a little easier knowing he wasn't to blame, but she was still gone, and now, he was mad at his father for whatever he did to make her go away.
He'd never make his wife so miserable she'd run off and leave him and their kid. But what if he married the wrong woman and she was unhappy no matter what he did? Most women would want to take the children with them, and that would be just as bad—to have a child and lose it.
Was C.J. anyone's mother? She'd make a good one with her tender heart. It was almost dark now, and he pictured her curled up in the flannel robe he'd seen on the floor. He liked the flimsy feathered thing, but there was something cozy about the robe that suited C.J.
He sometimes thought about marriage, but he'd never met a woman he could picture as his wife. Granted, he made it a point to date women who didn't want to get serious.
C.J. was here to find freedom. But just as he'd suspected, she was a woman of depth. When she clutched those violets to her breast, he'd longed to lay her gently on the ground and make love. But he couldn't—wouldn't—rush her.
He wouldn't make demands on her like whoever it was back home that caused her to hit the road, seeking freedom. When she was ready to make love, she'd let him know, but until then, he'd wait.
Whoa! Nick smacked his hand against the table. Isadora wasn't the one with a problem. John was at fault, for pushing her too fast. He needed to give her time, show her he cared and let her open to her quest. Then she'd open up to him.
Nick deleted what he'd written in Chapter Two and began again.
John brought Isadora flowers. Roses. He bought her a shawl ... no, a necklace. Nick gave him a guitar, and he serenaded her with a song his mother taught him. Isadora, touched to tears, caressed his cheek. “Karma,” she whispered and John nodded, knowing exactly what she meant.
* * * *
CEE LOVED HER haircut and called to tell Marianne. “It's chic, casual, and sexy, all at the same time. I suppose Susan will freak. She seems to think I should look matronly."
"You're the closest to a mother she has, so of course she'll freak. Remember how we wanted ours to cook, clean house, and stay out of sight in case our friends dropped by? I can understand you wanting a new hairstyle, but I can't understand why you'd let that man-beast, Nicky what's-his-name, cut it. What is his last name?"
Why they'd never exchanged last names, Cee couldn't say. There couldn't be any secret there. “Nick,” she corrected, feathering her hair with her fingers.
"Puh-lease, tell me you know his whole name."
Marianne's moan grated on Cee's eardrum and nerves. She laughed hollowly. “What's in a name?"
"Now, you're spouting clichés. You're not carrying this liberation thing too far, are you?"
"The queen-of-free-living dares to ask me that? For shame. Don't worry about the new me. You'll love the haircut.” Cee hung up, untied her now-rumpled midriff, and slipped out of her shorts. Her flannel robe peeked out from beneath the chair where she'd kicked it when ... she rushed Susan off.
Damn. She'd told her she'd call her back to discuss the engagement and forgot. Maybe she was carrying the liberation thing too far, forgetting her responsibility to
Susan.
She found the number in her Rolodex and called the Simmons’ house. No one answered.
She checked the time. They'd probably gone out to dinner. There was nothing more she could do now. Susan would be furious. Cee looked out the window and saw a single light burning in Nick's trailer. She'd hoped he would return, suggesting they eat together, but it was seven o'clock and he hadn't.
She opened her refrigerator and glared at its contents. She didn't feel like eating a salad or yogurt or any of the boring things she'd been living on for years, and it was Nick's fault for plying her with fats and sweets and spoiling her taste buds. He was also spoiling her taste in pursuits. She didn't want to read or do some silly solitary thing. She wanted to live. In other words ... she sighed ... she longed to be with him.
What was he doing? She strapped on her fanny pack, made sure she had cash inside, and started for the camp store. She took half a dozen steps and stopped. She could ask him to walk with her, but he must be busy. It would be easy to peek inside his open door and see, but that would be too obvious since it was out of her way. If Nick was truly a free spirit, he might be scared off if he thought she was chasing him.
Harry, when he made an excuse to go out, used to say, “A man needs a chance to breathe.” He'd done a lot of heavy breathing with Stella, and when Cee found out, accused her of being a cold fish.
"A man needs a hot woman on a cold night,” he said. No wonder she'd grown more and more inhibited. Nick made her blood run hot, but a trickle of fear ran through her. If she and Nick made love, would she disappoint him? She couldn't imagine turning cold in his arms.
Did he want to make love as much as she did?
Cee shook her head and resumed walking. Daydreaming about making love with Nick didn't take care of dinner. And neither did comparing him to Harry.
Still, she liked Nick's platitudes better than Harry's excuses. He had been full of excuses. She probably shouldn't think badly of the dead. She'd mislaid her trust, but he was her husband, and she'd expected better of him.
Finding Mr. Romantic Page 6