He gently took her arm and led her to the front door. Charlotte stepped into a small foyer. A low wooden trunk with a cushion on top sat near the door. Above it she saw a row of hooks covered with Colin’s jackets and sweaters, and above that, a shelf that held hats. A staircase faced the front door, leading to an upper floor. Charlotte guessed the rooms up there had pitched ceilings; from the outside, the cottage looked too small to have two stories. She also saw openings to several rooms: a sitting room, a kitchen, and another room with a closed door. The walls were whitewashed with dark wood molding that made her feel as if she were in the Irish countryside. The low ceilings and wooden floors topped by area rugs added to that effect.
“Let’s go in here and you can sit down,” Colin said, leading her into the sitting room.
Charlotte’s knee hurt more now, and after a moment or two of limping, Colin slipped his arm around her waist and practically carried her to a cushy leather chair next to the fireplace.
“Watch out for the books. I don’t want you to break a leg or anything.”
Charlotte feigned a smile at his mild joke. The truth was, she had only noticed the books in a distant, foggy part of her brain. His hard, strong body pressed close to hers was wildly distracting. By the time he set her down, she felt a bit light-headed. And she knew it wasn’t from the tumble off her bike.
She made herself focus on the room and saw a fireplace built of round gray stones with a stained-wood mantel. There were pictures on it and built-in bookcases on either side of the hearth. More books were scattered on every surface, on the tables and in stacks on the floor. There were even a couple of books on the couch.
Colin gently lifted her leg up on a hassock. “Stay right there. I’ll get some ice and a cloth.”
Charlotte nodded. She felt a bit overwhelmed by all this attention. So far, all he did was take care of her. This was getting embarrassing. He probably thinks I’m some sort of flailing, damsel-in-distress, she thought. Though the truth was Charlotte had taken charge of her own life at eighteen and had been running it quite successfully ever since.
No help for that now, she thought with a sigh. He won’t know me long enough to realize I’m not like that.
She glanced around, noticing the room seemed very much like him. Comfortable but masculine; orderly but not too perfect. It was a lot like the cabin in his boat. The décor wasn’t any one style; it was sort of a cozy mishmash, but what could you expect? She was sure the good folk of Thompson’s Bend didn’t hire decorators, like all her friends in L.A.
Her eyes were drawn to the framed photographs on top of the fireplace mantel. She wished she could get a closer look at them, but she didn’t dare get up and bend her knee again. The bleeding had just about stopped.
On the other side of her chair, she saw a tan couch with loose throw pillows, and a rocking chair. She could easily picture Colin in the rocker, stretching out his long legs, or taking a nap on the couch, his feet probably hanging off the armrest.
At the opposite side of the room, a long wooden table stood in front of several windows that framed an ocean view. The table was obviously used as a desk, its wood surface displaying a laptop, a brass reading lamp, neat piles of papers and folders, and yet more books.
She wondered if he was going to school part-time, in between his fishing trips. It looked like a lot of books and writing going on here, for a man who made his living on the sea.
He soon returned with a tray that held two glasses of iced tea and a pile of first-aid supplies. It looked as if he had emptied out his entire medicine cabinet.
Charlotte nearly laughed. “Does it really look that bad? Just a bandage and some antiseptic cream would do.”
“I have it here somewhere,” he promised, setting the tray on a low table that appeared to be made from an old battered door. “Here’s a washcloth. You can clean out the scrapes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted.
Charlotte took the damp cloth and got the dirt out of her cuts. Then she dabbed on some antibiotic cream and covered her knee with a big bandage. Her elbow had already stopped bleeding and only needed the antiseptic. “Thanks,” she said when she finished. “You run a good clinic here, Dr. Doyle.”
Colin winced. “This place is a mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“It looks fine to me. You do have a lot of books, enough for a library,” she added. She leaned over and sipped her iced tea. “I guess you like to read. I do, too. I’ve loved books ever since I was a kid. It was a big escape for me,” she added, though she stopped short of admitting just what she needed to escape from.
“Me, too. I hate TV. I don’t even own one. You don’t get very good reception out here anyway. I’d rather read a good book. There’s plenty of time for that in the winter.”
“Because you can’t fish?”
“Not unless I go south. Sometimes I do, but fishing year-round is not really my plan.”
“Your plan? Hmm … That sounds mysterious. I guess I did sense something else going on with you. Do you lead a double life?”
He made a mock mysterious face, then moved closer to whisper his answer. “Not so loud. You’ll blow my cover. I do lead a double life. I fish in the summer and write in the winter. I moved out to the island after I got my MFA in creative writing.”
He had a master’s degree? Charlotte was impressed. She had only finished two years at a community college in California, and taken some acting classes.
“I had a job at a boating magazine for a while after school and I tried to write at night,” he explained. “But that was too draining and boring. So I came out here and decided to earn a lot of money fishing in the summer, then live off it the other months and write. It’s been working out all right so far.”
“That’s an original solution.” Charlotte knew a lot of fledgling writers, working on screenplays mostly. They all faced the same problems: bringing in an income to support their creative work and having enough energy left to write after a workday.
“What kind of writing do you do?” she asked.
“Fiction, mainly. I’ve had some short stories published. I’m working on a novel. It’s almost finished. I’ve been trying to work on it a little this summer, but I hardly have time. I’m looking forward to getting back to it soon. It should be done by spring.”
“That’s exciting. What’s it about? I know some writers don’t like to talk about their work,” she added quickly. “They think it will jinx it or something.”
Colin laughed. “I’m not superstitious, but I still don’t like to talk about it,” he admitted. “I feel like, if I keep telling the story out loud to everyone, I won’t feel like writing it anymore.”
Charlotte nodded. “That makes sense. That’s the way I feel when a director asks for too many takes of the same scene. It squeezes all the juice out or something.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you have a publisher yet?”
“No. But an editor who likes my short fiction said she would take a look.”
“Hey, maybe if it’s made into a movie, I could play one of the characters. Is there a part for me in the story?”
His smile grew wide at the suggestion. “I’m not sure … but I could write one in that would suit you. It’s not too late.”
The way he looked at her made Charlotte’s face feel warm. Was she blushing? Was that even possible?
She looked away and smoothed out the bandage again. She had sensed there was something special about Colin. He was not only independent and unconventional but creative, a combination that she found incredibly attractive. The more she learned about Colin, the more she felt drawn to him.
The sound of her cell phone brought her back to reality.
It was a call from the inn; she heard Liza’s worried voice on the other end.
“Charlotte? I’m just calling to see if you’re all right. Did you have any trouble with the bike? Maybe I should pick you up. You must be tired.”
Before Charlotte could answer she hea
rd Meredith in the background. “Is she all right? I don’t think she should have gone out biking all alone. That wasn’t smart.”
“I’m fine. Can you hold on a minute, please?” Charlotte pressed the phone to her chest. “They’re about to let the bloodhounds loose. I have to go back.”
“I’ll drive you, no problem.”
That would be the fastest solution, Charlotte thought. It would also require the fewest explanations.
“I can get back on my own, don’t worry. I’m not far,” Charlotte told Liza. She felt a little guilty fibbing, but the island was so small, she really wasn’t far.
Charlotte hung up and slid her cell phone back into her pocket. Then she got up slowly from the chair.
“How’s your leg? Need any help?”
Colin held out a strong arm. The offer was tempting but Charlotte shook her head. “I feel much better, thanks. I’m sure I won’t even notice it tomorrow. Thanks for the tea and the first-aid kit.” She looked around wistfully. She had enjoyed her little escape so much, it was hard to see it end.
“You have a really nice house,” she said as she started toward the door. “It’s really … you.”
He laughed. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment, but I think you meant it that way. You’ll have to come back when you have more time.”
It was the kind of casual, automatic invitation anyone might extend, but it made Charlotte feel deeply happy. “I’d like that,” she replied. “I’d like that very much.”
They walked outside and Colin helped her into the truck, then got behind the wheel. It was a short ride to the inn. They breezed past the village center and drove along the coast. The edge of Gilroy Farm soon came into view.
Charlotte had been asking Colin questions about fishing, but suddenly touched his arm, interrupting him. “I’m sorry, but you’d better drop me off here. I’ll just walk the bike the rest of the way.”
He glanced at her, looking puzzled, but slowed the truck and began to pull over. “Why can’t I bring you up to the inn?”
“I know it seems strange, but if you bring me back, there will be a lot of questions. It’s been such a perfect afternoon, driving around on my own. Even getting mowed down by your truck,” she teased him. “I just felt like a normal person for a few hours,” she tried to explain. “It would get spoiled completely.”
She glanced at him, wondering if he understood. She could see he was trying to. She wanted to protect the fragile connection growing between them.
“I guess you don’t have much privacy,” he said finally.
“I don’t have any,” she said glumly. “Reporters follow me everywhere. Nothing feels off limits to them. The more outrageously intrusive the photo, the more money they’re worth. The producer has some security people chasing them away when we film, but I know they’ve staked out the inn with their high-powered cameras. They caught me on the dock, coming off your boat, and they’ll catch me again. They could even be hiding in that tall grass, disguised as goats.” She pointed at the meadow, trying to make a joke out of it.
He stared out at the goats and rubbed his chin. “Which one do you think is part of the paparazzi? That white one? Is that a bell around his neck—or a digital camera?”
She laughed but felt sad inside. “I’m sorry. I know it sounds like I’m exaggerating, even paranoid. But it’s almost that bad.”
“I believe you, Charlotte. You’re just so nice … and normal. I keep forgetting that you’re so famous.”
Of all the compliments he could have come up with, that one pleased her the most. “Well, thanks. I hate when people treat me like some exotic creature in a zoo. I’m a regular person, just like everyone else.”
He smiled at her reply. “I wouldn’t go that far. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before.”
Then he looked suddenly serious. He took her face in his hands and kissed her so sweetly it made her toes curl. The kiss was long and deep, and Charlotte wished it could go on forever.
She sat back feeling stunned, while a rare kind of happiness bubbled up inside. She lifted her hand and pressed it to his cheek. “You’re not like anyone I ever met before either. I really mean that.”
He took her hand and dropped a kiss on her palm. “When can I see you again?”
Charlotte didn’t answer. She just stared into his deep blue eyes, wondering if they should see each other again. Where could this lead, except to both of them feeling hurt and frustrated?
“You don’t want to see me again?” His voice was light and teasing, but she saw the first shadow of hurt in his eyes, and she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t hurt him, especially not for a lie.
“Yes, I do. Very much.” She told him the truth. “I don’t know when though. The filming schedule can be so crazy, especially with the weather. It’s hard to know when I’ll be free,” she explained. “Give me your cell phone number. I’ll call you.”
“All right. Just make sure you do.” Colin grinned and quickly gave her his number, and she gave him hers. Then he jumped out of the truck and took her bike from the back and set it on the road.
With a little sting in her scraped knee, she was able to get back on the bike and start pedaling toward the inn. Colin watched her a moment from inside the truck, then waved and drove away in the opposite direction.
The inn was only a short distance from the farm and soon came into sight. Charlotte saw Meredith watching out a window in the sitting room. By the time Charlotte reached the front steps of the inn, her assistant was on the porch, looking frantic. “Charlotte, we were worried about you. Where have you been and what’s that on your knee? Did you fall?”
Charlotte parked the bike near the porch, checking it over for any dents or scratches. She didn’t want to leave Liza with a damaged bike. But it looked all right. It had fallen on the grass, she recalled.
“I had a little spill,” she told Meredith. “But a very nice couple helped me and drove me part of the way back.” Meredith eyed the bandage. “They had a first-aid kit in their truck,” Charlotte added.
“I hope it doesn’t leave a mark,” Meredith said. “You’d better stick close to the inn until we go. This cute little island is hazardous to your health.”
Charlotte smiled. “Don’t worry, I think I’ll survive.”
Charlotte was glad it was dusk and the fading light of the sun hid her expression. She felt as if she were glowing like a firefly. She wanted to sing and dance and run out on the beach and scream at the top of her lungs, to shout out to the whole world, “The most wonderful man in the world just kissed me. I can’t wait to see him again!”
But of course, that was out of the question. Though she might sneak a song or two in the shower.
Meredith was watching her closely. “Are you all right?”
Charlotte nodded and swallowed back her happiness. It was hard to keep a normal tone. “I’m fine. I think I’ll just sit out here a minute and watch the sunset.”
“Okay, see you inside. Liza is going to serve dinner in a few minutes. She was waiting for you.”
“I’ll be right in,” Charlotte promised.
She had never asked Colin about the lobsters. She had to remember to ask the next time she spoke to him. Soon, she hoped. Maybe even later tonight.
She knew the whole idea of falling for Colin was insane. There were a million and one reasons why nothing would come of it. But she couldn’t wait to hear from him. She couldn’t wait to see him again. She couldn’t deny it.
Chapter Seven
DUSK was falling when Audrey and Rob returned from Boston. Audrey was the first one in the house. She knew the dog was waiting for her. The poor thing hadn’t been out all day. Rob went straight to the goats, stopping just long enough at the barn door to pull his rubber boots on over his good pants.
Audrey opened the back door to the house and, as she expected, was greeted by ecstatic barks. The dog was desperate to go out but still had time for a happy-dance greeting, jumping around Audrey a
nd wagging her tail so hard she nearly knocked over a chair. She tried to lick Audrey’s face, acting as if they had been separated for weeks.
Audrey was trying to teach her better behavior, but so far she was more of a Dog Shouter than a Whisperer.
“Down, girl. Go out. Go ahead.” Audrey opened the back door again, and the dog finally took off. Audrey didn’t worry about the dog running away. The property was bordered by sturdy fences, keeping the goats in and unwanted creatures out. Audrey filled the dog’s bowl with kibble and gave her fresh water. Moments later, she found her at the back door again, eagerly sniffing through the screen for her dinner.
Well, that was easy. People food was another story, unless she was serving cold cereal tonight. Audrey felt exhausted, too tired to cook, but she did have some tasty leftovers on hand and stuck them in the microwave while she worked on a green salad.
The visit to the fertility specialist in Boston had taken all day. The drive was only about two and a half hours but by the time they had the appointment, got some lunch, and did a little shopping, it was late afternoon before they started home, hitting commuter traffic to the North Shore villages all the way.
She knew that Rob felt tired, too, the fatigue more emotional and stress-related than physical. They hadn’t done a bit of work, just driven around in traffic, then been poked and prodded by a doctor. They would get the results sometime next week. Audrey hated the waiting. So much of her life these many months seemed to be about waiting: Waiting for the best time to conceive. Waiting to see if she was pregnant. Waiting to try again.
She wanted a baby so much. Being childless was becoming more and more painful. It seemed everywhere she looked, there were babies, like the other day at the General Store. It seemed like a baby conspiracy. Sometimes it felt as if she were surrounded by babies dozing in strollers, riding in car seats, or lugged along in snuggly little packs, strapped to their mothers. So heart-wrenchingly sweet and beautiful.
Friends and acquaintances would call and casually report that they were expecting. All of her friends and siblings who had gotten married about the same time, and some who were recently married, had children by now. In their late thirties, she and Rob were getting a late start. That was part of the problem right there. But it was just easier for some couples, no question. Her friends and relatives didn’t mean to hurt her feelings with their happy reports. They had no idea what she and Rob were going through.
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