“Six days. Seven if you count today.”
She stilled, her eyes wide. “I wrote over fifty thousand words in six days? Wow.” She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. “I definitely deserve a drink. Or two. Can you be ready to leave in forty minutes? I want to try Trib’s, and it’s hard to get a table much after five.”
Though five o’clock seemed early for dinner, Oscar decided not to argue. “All right. I’ll drive.”
She gave him a grin, a trio of dimples dancing with enthusiasm. “Duh. Why do you think I insisted on you going? How else would I get there?”
He gaped, then realized she was teasing him. Fighting his own smile, he shook his head. “But you’re buying, remember. And believe me, I’m going to make it worth all the private chef work and the chauffeuring I’ve taken on over the last few days.”
He could still hear her laughing as he closed the door.
Well, tonight should be entertaining, if nothing else. And he was going to get a good meal out of it.
Couldn’t argue with that.
Eight
Teddy sang in the shower and danced around a bit in the small space. She shaved as she laughed with glee, and managed to avoid not only cutting her knee, but also bumping her elbow on the edge of the soap dish in the tiny stall, even when she added in a little wriggle of a dance. She shampooed the hell out of her hair, and used some fragrant scrubbing salts on her skin. Slough away, baby.
It had been a couple days since she’d showered.
But when she remembered how she’d flung her less-than-fresh self at Oscar, her enthusiasm dampened a little.
Though he hadn’t thrust her away, so maybe she hadn’t smelled that bad.
But…yikes.
Not that it mattered—for the guy was still totally hung up on his ex. Which was a bummer, because though she’d been brain-deep in Sargent Blue’s adventure, there had been a few random moments when she remembered that wet and steamy (literally) kiss in the pool.
And the way he’d kissed her back. And the feel of his muscular arms around her, and the firm planes of his chest beneath her hands…
Mmmhmmm, she thought as she scanned the closet (of course she’d unpacked and hung up all her clothes—it was a great way to procrastinate). Definitely, she’d want to explore that a little more—if the opportunity arose.
Which was why Teddy ended up choosing a cobalt-blue maxi dress that had a deep-but-not-too-slutty vee neck in the front and the back, and wide shoulder straps that wouldn’t fall down—or require her to wear a strapless bra. The color made her eyes appear wildly blue, and didn’t make her light skin seem too pasty. A silver necklace with a lot of interesting charms and disks hanging from it nestled into the bodice’s deep vee, and she wore matching earrings that sparkled every time she moved. She bundled her thick hair (long overdue for a trim) into a messy chignon and chose a pop of pink lipstick. No, she didn’t “clean up” very often, but when she did, she was damned good at it.
And, she discovered, so was the inscrutable but fascinating Dr. London.
He was wearing off-white chinos that neither sagged nor fit too tightly, belted at just the right place around his waist. In comparison to the previous shirts he’d worn—crisp white or pale blue—the one he’d donned tonight was positively eye-popping. He’d chosen blue as well—this time, a deep navy, with a tiny white pattern on it—and from the slight sheen of the material, Teddy thought it might be either silk or some sort of costly rayon blend.
The dark blue showed off the tan on his forearms and the sun-washed hair sprinkled there. Damp, his hair burned like dull copper instead of carrot. He’d combed it back neatly on the sides and top—though it was just beginning to curl up as it dried, and there was an errant lock that appeared ready to spring free and tumble over his temple. And he’d somehow managed a quick shave, for his chin was smooth and she caught a whiff of something fresh and male that had her hormones sitting up and taking notice.
“I looked up how to get to Trib’s,” he told her as they climbed into his Grand Cherokee. “I wasn’t sure if you knew, and I haven’t been into Wicks Hollow myself.”
“Oh, good. I haven’t seen the downtown area for years. My first night here, Declan and Leslie—that’s his girlfriend—took me to dinner at a non-touristy place outside of town.” She gestured to her dress and then to his similarly colored shirt. “Apparently, you got the memo.”
“The memo?”
She gave a huff of quiet laughter. “It’s a joke—we’re wearing the same colors, and— Well, never mind.” She winced a little at her sad attempt at humor, and began to bubble up with all of the conversation she’d stoppered up inside over the last five days. “I can’t believe I wrote fifty thousand words in six days. Neither can Harriet—I called her with the news.”
“That’s a lot of words,” he agreed. “When I write articles or research papers, they might be in the range of five thousand words or so—and it takes me a lot longer than a week.”
They’d crossed the bridge from the lighthouse’s island, and he eased the car onto the two-lane county highway. The road traced the shore of Lake Michigan, offering glimpses of the vast, sparkling blue through pines, birches, and other trees, as well as small bluffs and a few houses tucked into the forest that edged the lake.
She beamed at him. “I’m just so glad the book’s done. Well, mostly done. Now that I have a first draft, going back and fine-tuning it and tweaking things, making some edits and maybe moving some scenes around, is much easier work.”
“So it’s not really finished, then?” he said as they turned off Highway 31 and onto Wicks Road.
A sign said:
Welcome to Wicks Hollow
A Hidden Jewel on Lake Michigan
Population 1500
“I’m finished enough to know that I’ll have a final draft for my editor within the next couple of weeks. That’s what matters. The story’s done, so the pressure’s off,” she said, resting her head back against the seat and turning to look at him.
Nice profile, Dr. London, she thought. Strong nose, good chin, excellent lips. Very nibble-able.
“Well, you definitely look a lot more relaxed,” he said after a few moments of silence and a quick look her way. “I like your dress.”
She smiled to herself. “Thank you. So, what have you been doing all week besides delivering food to me? Which, really, Oscar, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Back home—I live in New York City—I can call for food delivery when I’m on deadline.”
“I didn’t mind. It seemed like a waste for each of us to cook separately anyway, so— Oh, damn, I forgot to tell you. Your cousin came by the other evening.”
“Declan stopped by? I didn’t realize.”
“Yes. I— Well, since it wasn’t anything urgent, I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered. And he agreed.”
“Thank you for that. I appreciate it. Did he leave some books for me to sign?”
“Yes. I should have remembered before we left—then we could have brought them with us. And dropped them off.” He glanced at her. “He was telling me a crazy story about a ghost in Leslie’s B&B.”
“I heard something about that—he’s promised to give me details the next time— Oh, there’s a parking place right there.” They’d been driving through the semi-familiar village for three blocks already, and that was the first open spot she’d seen. “Wow. The town sure has changed since I was here last.”
“How long ago was that?” he asked, maneuvering his Jeep expertly into the parallel parking spot.
“You’re good at that,” she said. “Usually it takes me a few tries to get into a spot like this.”
He shrugged. “It’s just geometry.”
“Yeah. Math wasn’t ever my strong suit. Hence the writing career.” She opened the door and popped out without waiting for him to come around. “It’s been, oh, at least ten or fifteen years since I was here.” She laughed, gesturing at the signs for the main intersectio
n of the compact business district. “I always found it amusing that the two main roads at the town center area are called Pamela Boulevard and Faith Avenue—when neither of them is hardly any more than a two-lane street.”
“Maybe the founders were being optimistic,” Oscar said, joining her on the sidewalk.
She chuckled again. “That’s what I always thought. Lofty ideals. Oh, there’s the yoga studio. That’s new. Leslie’s aunt—her name is Cherry, and she happens to be a big fan of Sargent Blue; the lady’s got good taste—anyway, she owns that. See, up there on the second floor? I bet those big windows give them a great view of Lake Michigan while they’re doing warrior pose and all that.
“And if you follow Pamela Ave out that way,” she said, pointing west, “and turn north onto Elizabeth Street—and it’s really just a street, not an avenue—you get to what they call B&B Row, where most of the tourists stay. That’s where all the painted ladies are, lined up like they’re parading down the street wearing their fancy hats and so on. The old Victorian homes just dripping with curlicue trim and garrets jutting out from the rooftops. Some of them even have little porches and balconies up there on the second and third floors—I forget what they’re called—but anyway, they call those old houses painted ladies because of all the bright colors they sport.”
“I know what a painted lady is,” Oscar said dryly. “I’m from Princeton, remember? Cape May is nearly in my backyard.”
“Oh, right,” she said, and just barely stopped herself from casually slipping her arm through his to walk along the sidewalk. Maybe after dinner…and a drink or two to loosen them both up. “And look at all the flowers—on every single doorstep and corner. They’re so beautiful—just spilling out of these pots, and so colorful. Ooh, I love this combination of silver, green, and purple.” She halted in front of the trough of mixed plants near the door of a restaurant. “Oh, this is Trib’s. I’m already in love with it, just from the flowers!”
“Looks pretty crowded,” Oscar muttered.
“That’s why I wanted to come early,” she said, breezing into the restaurant. “Hmm. I guess he likes Andy Warhol—he must have a print of everything the guy ever did hanging in here—and combined with an industrial look. But it really works. Hi, table for two, please,” she said to the man who greeted them at the check-in stand. On the wall above was a huge framed print of Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans.
The host looked at her, a friendly smile on his face—then, in an instant, that smile bloomed into a grin and his eyes lit up. “You’re T.J. Mack,” he said. “Welcome—and thank you for gracing this humble establishment with your presence! I’m Trib.”
Teddy put his age around the half-century mark, but his was the face and toned body of a young, vibrant fifty. He had platinum-blond hair buzzed very close to his nicely shaped scalp—he wasn’t going for bald, but it was shorter than a brush cut. His goatee and mustache, neatly trimmed, were black threaded with iron gray, and his hazel eyes sparkled with pure pleasure. He wore a pink and white patterned shirt with a butter-yellow bowtie and a creamy linen jacket. The combination was fabulous.
“I certainly wouldn’t use the word humble to describe this place,” she replied, shaking his offered hand. “It’s gorgeous and seems very comfortable. It’s a pleasure to meet you too. This is my friend, Dr. Oscar London.”
Oscar gave her a slight frown—because she used his title, she supposed—but it smoothed away when he shook Trib’s hand. “Nice to meet you. The place does look nice, and I hear you make the best pizza in the county. Is there any chance you have a table for two available now? Maybe somewhere not too—uh—loud?”
“A cozy table, and not outside,” Trib said with a glint in his eye. “For T.J. Mack and her guest, absolutely. I’m a big fan, you know,” he continued, leaning closer to Teddy but not bothering to drop his voice. “I have the most devastating crush on Sargent Blue. Put me out of my misery and tell me you based him on a real person, and that he’s single and you can introduce me to him.”
Teddy laughed as their host led them into the depths of the restaurant. “I wish I could—and you’re not the first person to ask. Unfortunately, Sargent is my own creation—let’s say fantasy, sort of—and he lives only in my mind and on the pages of my books.”
“I’m crushed,” said Trib as he pulled out a chair for her with a flourish. “But I’ll survive.”
Oscar, who’d started toward the same chair, pivoted and took the second one at the four-top Trib had chosen for them. Her housemate appeared mildly aggrieved at being cheated of the opportunity to pull out her chair. Or maybe he just wanted to sit facing the interior of the restaurant.
Trib insisted on comping them their first round of drinks, so once they’d decided on that—a Pinot Noir for Oscar, despite his mention of beer, and an Albariño for Teddy—he flitted off.
“See? It’s not too crowded back here, and it’s pretty quiet. Though it might have been nice to sit where we could see the street and—”
“And all the crowds walking by?” Oscar settled back in his seat and eyed her speculatively. “I thought most writers were introverts.”
“Oh, most of us are. I am.” When he gave her a quirked eyebrow that indicated his disbelief, she added, “I’ve just been saving up for the last five days—locked in my dungeon, working. Even introverts like to be around people—just not very often. And not usually in big groups.” She beamed at him. “And tonight’s a night for celebration, so I’m practically giddy.”
“Only practically?” he muttered, and she laughed. Their gazes met, and he joined her in the moment of humor, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he rumbled a laugh.
They were still chuckling when Trib himself delivered their drinks. “We’ve got another famous author in the house tonight,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Things are really hopping here in tiny Wicks Hollow, and especially at Trib’s.”
“You do? Who is it?” Teddy craned her neck to look around.
“Ethan Murphy—the one who wrote that book The Welcome Blue Light, about near-death experiences.”
“I know Ethan!” Teddy perked up even more. “He’s repped by the same literary agency I am. We’ve met several times. He’s here? I’d love for him to join us—Oscar, you don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not,” Oscar replied. But she could see he was unenthusiastic about the idea.
“Maybe just for a drink,” Teddy said, suddenly realizing that having more people at the table might derail her opportunity to get to know her nerdy housemate—and supremely excellent kisser—better.
“They’ve just been served their appetizers,” Trib said, looking across the restaurant. “But I’ll mention to Ethan you’re here and suggest he might come over to say hi later.”
“They?” Oscar asked, and Teddy smothered a laugh. He seemed to be even more cautious around new people than she was.
“Ethan and Diana, his main squeeze,” Trib replied. “They come up nearly every weekend, and spend most of July and August here in the summer. He’s got a spectacular log cabin on Wicks Lake. And she’s the one who inherited the old house that was haunted by her dead aunt,” he added, just before flitting off to speak to another customer. He tossed the last words over his shoulder: “Last summer.”
“Haunted by her dead aunt?” Teddy said, looking after him with a curled lip. “Well, that’s kind of r—”
“I know. There seem to be a lot of ghost stories in this town,” Oscar said. “Probably helps to bring in the tourists.”
“I was going to say ‘redundant.’ Of course her aunt was dead if she was haunting the place. You ever hear of a not-dead person haunting a house?” She tasted her wine. Crisp, light, and a little fruity. Just the way she liked it—and the way she felt tonight. It was as if a huge stone yoke had been lifted from her shoulders.
No, the book wasn’t officially done yet, but she hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Oscar she’d have it finished in a couple weeks. Cleaning up and polishing a
finished manuscript was an easy process for her.
Oscar was looking at her—from behind glasses he’d obviously put on for reading then menu. And Teddy’s heart gave an extra big thump.
She loved guys with glasses. Especially scholarly-looking ones like the tortoiseshell horn-rimmed specs he was wearing.
That was why Sargent Blue wore reading glasses and was charmingly far-sighted—which also contributed to some of the plot elements in the series. After all, who ever heard of a spy-slash-adventurer who had imperfect eyesight? No one expected Jason Bourne to have to whip out a pair of glasses to read his mobile phone.
“What?” she said, realizing Oscar had been speaking while her hormones went into overdrive over the glasses.
He removed the spectacles (probably a good thing, all things considered) and looked at her closely. “I said, I’ve never heard of anyone haunting a house—except in movies or books.”
“So you don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I… Well, I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
Teddy narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her wine glass. “So I suppose that’s why you haven’t mentioned the elephant in the room.”
“What elephant?”
“Well, there are actually two elephants in our room, if you want to be accurate,” she said primly.
His expression popped into: Oh boy.
She nearly laughed again, because she practically read the words hanging from his mouth—and his lips didn’t even move.
“Right,” he said—aloud this time. “So, did you look at the menu yet? Probably a good idea to do that before the server comes over and interrupts us.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she replied. “Wouldn’t want our secret pachyderm discussion to be interrupted. Nicely done, Dr. London.”
Sinister Sanctuary: A Ghost Story Romance & Mystery (Wicks Hollow Book 4) Page 12