“So,” he said, reaching for his wineglass, “where do you work?”
“I work freelance. Sort of like you. I submit proposals, and if the client likes my work, I get the job.”
He raised his glass toward her. She picked hers up.
“Here’s to being our own bosses.”
They clinked glasses, smiling at each other over the rims.
The fire snapped and crackled, warming the small room. Outside the storm whistled at the windows and rain pattered on the rooftop. Thunder rolled in tympanic majesty, a rhythmic backbeat to the sensations growing in their bodies.
Bo felt he was getting all the signals from her, but he knew she was shy. He didn’t want to rush her. He shifted so he could look at her expressive face to gauge her emotions. Despite anything she might say, he knew her face would reveal the truth.
“Heather?”
Heather lifted her eyes, and Bo lost his breath at what he saw there. Desire, yes. But also tenderness and apprehension.
She reached up to trace her fingers from his forehead past his eyes to his jaw. He clasped the hand and brought her fingertips to his mouth, kissing each one, never breaking his gaze.
Slowly, by degrees, Bo leaned forward. Her fingers slid from his cheek through his hair, still damp from the rain, to his neck. Then at last his lips were on hers, soft and trembling, tasting her sweetness. He moved his lips to her neck as his hands slowly slid down her body, gently untying the robe, placing his cool, smooth hand against Heather’s skin, warm to the touch. His fingers traced a path upward, rounding the curves of her breasts. When his hands at last caressed her, he bent his head and took in her nipples. She sighed, reaching up to bury her face in his neck. He brought his head back to her mouth, and kissed her, longingly, thoroughly.
Heather drew back, catching her breath. He felt her palm against his chest. A subtle pressure. A signal to stop.
Breathing heavily, he held his mouth over hers and waited.
“I think . . .” she said. Then inched back. Cooler air rushed between them. Heather sat back; flustered, she closed her robe with shaky fingers. “I think it’s my turn.” She quickly glanced at him to gauge his reaction.
Bo cocked his head. He understood that she was saying she needed more time. He’d give her all the time she needed. But he needed a little time now to cool down. He cleared his throat and swiveled to examine the board.
“I think it is. While you think of a word, and I’ll bet it will take a while with the word I left you, I’m going to scrounge around for something to eat. I’m starving.” He rose and reached for his glass.
“Wait!” Heather plopped four tiles onto the board and made a word. “Let me help. I’m starved, too.”
Bo looked over his shoulder to check out her word. “What the . . . ?” It was a big-pointer using six letters. “Are you some whiz-kid ringer?” he asked as she dragged him into the kitchen.
They talked and laughed as they rummaged through the cupboards, pulling out crackers, cookies, nuts, anything that appealed to them. “You like your health food, don’t you?” he asked, looking at all the different items. He picked up a bag of cookies and began reading the ingredients. He scrunched up his face in doubt. “Are these even any good?”
“Delicious,” she said, and took the bag from his hand.
From the fridge Heather grabbed more of the grilled chicken, fresh mozzarella, rye, and every condiment she had. “We’ll have another picnic,” she said, getting into it. “You bring out the nuts and crackers. I’ll make a platter of cheese and meat and meet you out there. Oh! And turn on some music. My phone’s by the door, and you know where the speakers are.”
“I’ll pick the tunes,” he said, gathering up boxes and jars and carrying them out to the table. He was feeling good and rubbed his palms together as he scanned the room. “Mood,” he said aloud. Bo added another log to the fire, stoked it a bit, and then went to the back bedroom where he’d left his phone. Scrolling through his playlist, he smiled when he found the perfect music. Back in the living room, he set his phone into the speakers, then crossed his arms to listen. Soon the sultry, smoky sound of John Coltrane’s saxophone was playing “In a Sentimental Mood.”
“Ooh, that’s nice,” Heather called out from the kitchen.
He smiled again. Dropping onto the sofa, he looked at the board game and laughed. It was clear their hearts were not in the game. He scooped up the tiles, about to toss them all back into the pouch, when he got an idea. Quickly he began searching in earnest for the right letters.
By the time Heather returned carrying a large tray, he was leaning back on the sofa, chewing one of the cookies, which actually had turned out to be pretty good. Lots of nuts. He tracked her movements as she walked across the room with the grace of a fawn. And like that rare moment when he’d spotted the underside of a female deer’s tail, snowy white, he relished the flashes of creamy white thigh he saw as Heather’s robe prettily split open as she walked. She set the tray within reach on the coffee table to reveal a platter of meat, cheeses, olives, capers, and nuts. She’d also brought bottled water for herself and the bottle of white for him.
He stretched out his arm and took her hand, then reeled her in as neatly as he had the fish earlier that day. She fell into his lap, laughing nervously.
“That looks amazing,” he said, and kissed her nose.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied, then reached down to close her robe, which had begun to slip open.
“Now, I believe it’s your turn.”
“Oh, I already put down my letters.”
“And I just put down mine.”
“You did?” Heather turned to look at the board. On it she saw the letters spell out:
WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME
Heather turned and, with a shy smile, reached for the pouch of letters. She dug through until she found the ones she was looking for. These she laid in place below his letters.
Bo read the word over her shoulder and grinned from ear to ear.
YES
She turned back slowly and slid her arms around his neck. Her face glowed in the firelight and her hair took on the luster of twenty-four-karat gold. Miles Davis was playing a slow tune on the horn as she lowered her head toward his. He caught the scent of her perfume . . . jasmine, he thought.
“Y-E-S,” she spelled out. Then she leaned forward to place her lips on his.
“You win,” he said, then kissed her again.
Chapter Sixteen
HEATHER HAD SLEPT like a log the night before, even with Bo sleeping in the guest room. She giggled, remembering his face as he looked over his shoulder on his way down the hall. Like a man condemned. He might not have slept so well, she thought, giggling again.
When she awoke, she wasn’t covered in a sheen of perspiration. Rather, the room was deliciously cool and the air sweet. She breathed deep. And wait . . . She sniffed again. That wasn’t flowers. That was coffee!
She followed the scent like a hound dog toward the kitchen, stopping when she caught sight of Bo standing at the sunroom window, a mug in his hand, staring out. He was wearing only his pants, allowing her a view of his beautiful back—broad-shouldered and tanned, narrowing at the waist. Her fingers twitched to sketch him. All the windows were open and, as Cara had promised, a refreshing breeze blew in from the ocean. Pavarotti and Poseidon were chirping questioningly, asking him for seed. But Moutarde was already at his top perch singing loudly.
“You’re up!”
Bo swung around from his reverie. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“The scent of coffee is like a bugle alarm to me.” She lifted her nose. “And is that bacon?”
“I’m going to make you breakfast.”
Heather came to join him at the window, slipping easily into his arms. “How’d you sleep last night?”
“In the twin bed?” he asked, tongue in cheek. “The mattress is lumpy. Must’ve been Palmer’s from back in the day. But that wasn’t what kept me awake al
l night.” He set his mug on the table then bent to kiss her soundly, taking his time, letting his tongue roll around the insides of her mouth.
His lips tasted of coffee. Heather felt her knees grow weak and a soft sigh escaped her mouth when he finished.
“Does that give you an idea of the tortures I endured knowing you slept prettily in your bed clear on the other side of the house?”
She giggled as color rose to her cheeks.
“And if that wasn’t bad enough, it was a steaming oven in here. Baby, why do you sleep with the windows closed at night? You’re supposed to open them up.”
She ducked her head. “I . . . I’ve been sleeping with them closed because I was afraid to keep them open.”
“Don’t be afraid,” he said in a gentle tone. He lifted her chin. “Not anymore. I won’t let anything happen to you. Take a deep breath. Smell that?”
Heather closed her eyes and sniffed. She caught a heavy floral scent on the breeze. “Honeysuckle.”
“That’s right. And hear that? That’s the ocean, not traffic. It’s heaven out there. Don’t cut yourself off from it because you’re afraid. Life’s too precious to live in fear. Open the windows and let the breezes flow in.”
She listened to his words and believed them. This was her life, the only one she had. She wouldn’t let fear destroy her chances at happiness. This was the first morning since she’d arrived that she’d awoken without the pressing heat of a closed-up house. The air was fresh and inviting, sweet as a morning should be.
“I will.”
“Good,” he said, kissing her on the nose. “Now how about some breakfast?”
Heather stretched her arms high over her head. “Mmm, yes, please!”
Bo slipped his arms around her waist and drew her in for another kiss. “You shouldn’t go stretching like that. The morning light reveals all your attributes. Especially in front of a man who didn’t sleep a wink all night for thinking of you down the hall.”
Heather laughed, a bit embarrassed. She’d had no idea he could see through her nightie. They went into the kitchen, where she saw bread waiting in the toaster, bacon sizzling on the skillet, eggs whipped in a bowl. She settled in to watch him make breakfast, feeling taken care of. Watching him flip the bacon with quick twists of the fork, then step over to the grits and give them a stir, she couldn’t believe she was in her own life, not some romance novel.
So this is what it’s like to be in love, she thought, and mentally hugged herself.
CARA WAS STUCK in traffic over the bridge from Charleston to the Isle of Palms. It was a parking lot. She pulled out her phone and texted Emmi: Stuck on the bridge. Coming!
It seemed like she was always running lately. She was the little Dutch boy, running from place to place trying to stem the flow of money. She had a lot of support from her brother and John Denning but everything was moving so fast. Hurry up and wait. Stop and go. Just like this damn summer traffic.
After waiting through three lights she finally made the turn onto Isle of Palms. A few blocks later she was pulling into her own driveway. Emmi’s and Flo’s cars were parked there, and she spotted both of them standing in the front yard studying the FOR SALE sign. The temperature hovered around ninety and no one in their right mind should be standing outside. She cast a grateful glance at the large oak tree that shaded the front property under its pendulous branches. Thank heavens for the shade, she thought.
“Sorry I’m late,” Cara called as she hurried up the front walk. She was dressed all in black—skinny linen pants and a flowy top. Her arms were loaded down with large bags bulging with supplies from a moving company.
Emmi reached into the plastic box below the sign to take one of the brochures, then came running across the yard. Her green sparkly tunic top caught the light dappling through the leaves. Emmi’s freckled face was always animated, especially when her expression involved her wide mouth. It was rounded in an O of shock. She grabbed one of the bags from Cara’s arms.
“Open the door, honey. Once we get inside and out of this heat, you’ve got some explaining to do.”
“Like what in heaven’s name is a FOR SALE sign doing up in your yard?” demanded Flo, huffing as she caught up with them.
Cara paused to look out at the front yard, then pulled out the keys and opened the front door. “Come in.”
Cara dropped the keys in the bowl on the front table and walked directly to the kitchen. She set the bags down with a sigh. Everything tired her out. It seemed she was always either exhausted or sleeping.
She heard Flo and Emmi talking in the other room and sighed again, knowing she was about to get reamed out by her friends. She pulled out three tall glasses from the cabinet, filled them with ice, and poured sweet tea. Then, to stall for more time, she cut lemon wedges and added them.
“Well, for the love of Mike,” Flo called out. “What are you doing in there? Cooking dinner?”
Cara placed the glasses on a tray and carried them out.
“You don’t have to wait on us,” Emmi said.
“I’m not,” Cara replied. “But after keeping you waiting outside in this heat, the least I could do is offer you a cool drink. It’s only civilized.”
The three friends gathered around the coffee table with their iced tea. Cara took a long drink, enjoying the cool sweetness flowing down her throat like rain on a desert.
“So.” Emmi put her glass on a coaster. “Please explain to us what’s going on.”
“It all happened very fast,” Cara began wearily. She explained about discovering Brett’s lapsed insurance policy and the financial problems she was facing, sparing no details. “I had to be sure the life insurance had expired, so I went to see John Denning.”
“Good man,” Flo said in her forthright manner. “Like his daddy.”
“He’s an angel of mercy,” Cara agreed. “He got me right in to see him. We went through everything—the insurance policy, the loans, the mortgages, the cost of continuing Brett’s business. It’s a mess, I’m afraid.”
“Brett was never one for business,” Flo said. “God rest his soul.”
“He tried,” Cara said in his defense. “And he had so many other gifts. That boat was his last dream. Unfortunately, it turned into a nightmare. After we got the boat loan, I suspect he stopped making the other payments to fund that one.”
“Putting all his eggs in one basket, so to speak,” said Flo.
“More like robbing Peter to pay Paul,” Emmi piped in.
“I know, but nothing to be done about it now.” Cara took a sip of her tea. The sweetness was already rushing through her bloodstream, reviving her.
“And?” Emmi prompted.
Cara set down her glass. “Once John assured me the insurance policy had indeed lapsed, there was nothing left for me to do but figure my way out of the whole mess. It was clear the fastest way to pay off the debt was to sell this house.”
“But, Cara . . . selling your house?” Emmi said, reaching across the table to take her hand. “Do you really have to?”
Cara had gone over this heart-wrenching scenario a hundred times in the past few days, and always she came up with the same answer. “Yes, I do.”
Everyone was silent for a moment, no one knowing what to say next.
“It could be worse,” Cara said with a light laugh that held no humor. “I won’t go bankrupt. I’m lucky I have this house to sell to pay off the debts. It was Brett’s debt and his house. Looking at it that way, he came out even.” Cara looked around the room and said with a sigh, “Besides, I want to leave this house.”
Emmi sat back in her chair. “You want to leave? Why?”
“Brett’s everywhere here. Everywhere I turn I see something of his. This was his house when we got married. His dock, his boat. He loved it here, and I loved living here with him. We were happy. But with him gone . . .” Cara’s voice caught, and she shook her head. “It’s too hard. This life is over. I need to get out of here or I’ll lose my mind with grief.”
“Sure you do, darling,” Flo said, her face crumpled in worry.
“But, Cara, I mean . . . are you sure you should be making big decisions like this so soon after Brett’s . . . you know?”
“After Brett’s death. It’s okay, Emmi. I can say the word. I know he’s gone. I feel his absence every minute of every day. And you’re right. John said he doesn’t advise a widow to make big decisions too soon after the death of her spouse as a rule, but in my case, he agreed I had no choice. And”—she sighed—“I already got an offer on the house.”
“What?” asked Flo, stunned.
“Palmer knew someone who’d been looking for just such a spot. It’s a one-in-a-million offer. They bid over the asking price. Cash. On the condition they can close quickly. In two weeks.”
“You’re kidding! So fast?” Emmi whistled, eyebrows high on her forehead. “Well, tell them you can’t close till the end of summer!” she exclaimed with heat. “You shouldn’t be rushed. You need time.”
“No one’s going to want to wait till the end of summer for a summer house, Em. Least of all this buyer. He’s pushing to get in and enjoy the rest of the season. Can you blame him? It’s a miracle offer.”
“It’s not a miracle. It’s your deepwater dock,” said Flo matter-of-factly.
Almost imperceptibly, Cara lifted her shoulders. “Well, I accepted the offer. I close in three weeks.”
Stunned silence reigned as this news was digested.
Cara lifted her head to look out the window to where the dock stretched into Hamlin Creek. She could almost see Brett bending low and pulling up his crab pot, muscles rippling with the effort. The opposite bank was a thick wall of green trees and shrubs. Between the banks, the water appeared blue . . . calm . . . deceptively serene. Cara felt a tug of regret that she was leaving this view then turned away from the window. Cara knew better than to fall under its spell. Beneath the beautiful façade raged a dangerous current.
She straightened and spoke with more confidence. “Palmer’s been a great help. He knows some people who are cheap who can put what I want to keep into storage. But I still have to sort and pack everything up. I’ll pick out a few things of Brett’s I want to keep, but everything else . . .” She paused. “I’m selling or giving it all away to charity. That’s why I asked you to come here today.” She took a deep, fortifying breath. “To help me go through his things. I can’t do it alone.”
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