Sanctuary Cove

by Rochelle Alers

  “I can’t believe you bought into the hype.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just wouldn’t take you for someone who would go for a vampire flick.”

  “It was a paranormal romantic film.”

  “And that makes it different?”

  “Of course it does,” she argued softly.

  Asa reached for her left hand. “Play something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Anything, Deborah.”

  She searched her memory for a piece she could play without music, deciding on a Chopin nocturne. She hadn’t played more than a dozen notes when Asa began playing with her. They shared a grin, he winking at her as their fingers flew over the keys as if they’d practiced together in the past. Deborah knew playing with Asa made her step up her game, and she lost herself in the music.

  They segued from classical music to the show tunes from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s stage productions: “All I Ask of You,” “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,” and “I Don’t Know How to Love Him.” Overcome with emotion, Deborah collapsed against Asa. Playing with him had been a way for her to open up herself to release the grief that had hung over her like a shroud. The songs he’d selected were sadly haunting and evocative. It was as if he, too, was in pain and needed to surface from a dark place filled with sadness and melancholy.

  Covering her mouth with her hand, she cried silently. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, sliding off the bench. She hadn’t taken more than three steps when he caught her wrist, spinning her around to face him.

  Cradling her face between his hands, Asa stared at Deborah’s tear-stained face. “I’m sorry.” Reaching into a pocket of his slacks, he took out a handkerchief and gently blotted her face.

  She managed a half-smile. “There’s no need to apologize. I get a little sentimental when I hear certain songs.”

  Asa put the handkerchief back in his pocket. “You’re not a very good liar, Deborah.”

  Deborah’s temper flared, but she managed at the last possible second to clamp her teeth together to keep from spewing curses. She was upset because Asa had made her feel vulnerable, and after only two days he’d come to know whether she was lying or telling the truth. Was she that transparent, or was he just perceptive? She’d told him about her family, but little about herself. He knew she’d been a teacher, had owned a bookstore in Charleston, and was widowed with two teenaged children, but not much else. She hadn’t told him her age, where she’d attended college or what she’d planned for her future. “Excuse me, but I’m going out for a smoke.”

  “But you don’t smoke.” He’d repeated what she’d said to him earlier that morning.

  “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. I’ll right be back,” she replied with a sad smile.

  As Deborah opened the door and walked out into a light drizzle, she could hear the sounds of Andrew Lloyd Webber music being played on the piano. She stood still for a moment, allowing the melody to envelop her, before heading to the parking lot.

  Deborah walked into the Muffin Corner, the wind chime affixed to the door jangling musically. She folded her body down on a chair at the only unoccupied table, waving to Mabel who’d come from the rear of the shop.

  “What’s up, Debs?”

  She pulled her wet blouse away from her skin. “I’ll have your largest cappuccino with plenty of sugar and whipped cream.”

  Mabel made Deborah’s coffee, adding a generous amount of whipped cream, and then came over to sit down opposite her. “What in the world set you off? You look like a ruffled cat.”

  Taking a sip of the hot liquid, Deborah moaned softly as the perfectly made coffee warmed her throat and chest. “Thanks for the compliment,” she said facetiously. She immediately apologized when Mabel’s face fell. “I guess I’m a little stressed out trying to get the store ready for tomorrow.”

  “When I dropped off the muffins I noticed that you’d shelved all the books.”

  Deborah took another sip, licking the cream off her lips. “I couldn’t have done it without Asa Monroe.”

  Mabel gave her a mischievous smirk.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Mabel.”

  “Like what, Debs?”

  “Like the cat that just licked the cream off Sunday dinner’s dessert.”

  Mabel affected an impassive expression. “Is this better?”

  Deborah laughed when she felt like crying again. She could not have found better friends in Mabel and Barbara. They always knew what to do to make her laugh. She told her friend how she’d come to hire Asa.

  “I still would have been unpacking books if it wasn’t for him,” Deborah concluded.

  “The man is smooth as creamy peanut butter.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Breeding and elegance, Debs. That’s something you’re born with, and the man definitely has a monopoly on both.”

  Cradling the mug in her hands, testing its warmth against her palms, Deborah had to agree. “He’s very intelligent and extremely talented.”

  “Could it be that you like him?”

  “No! No,” Deborah repeated in a softer tone. “How can you say that when I just lost my husband?”

  “Losing your husband has nothing to do with finding yourself attracted to a man. What if Louis were alive? Would you still think your Mr. Monroe intelligent and creative?”

  “He is not my Mr. Monroe, Mabel. He happens to be someone who is vacationing on the Cove for the winter, and come spring he’ll be gone like so many of the other snowbirds. He wants to work and I need someone to help me manage the bookstore. End of story.”

  Mabel applauded slowly. “Bravo, Debs. Nice speech.”

  Deborah’s hands fell away from the mug as she began to massage her temples. “I came here to de-stress, Mabel. I don’t want to talk about Asa. What I do want to discuss with you is afternoon tea.”

  “Afternoon tea?” Mabel repeated.

  Deborah nodded. “Yes.” Throwing back her head, Mabel laughed. The sound was so infectious that Deborah laughed with her. “What’s so funny?”

  “Are you talking about tea time when ladies put on their fancy hats and lace gloves and nibble on cucumber sandwiches?”

  “Yes.” Deborah revealed to the pastry chef what she’d planned for weekday afternoons at The Parlor. Deborah also told her about the book club, leaving out the fact that Asa had given her the idea. The less she mentioned his name the easier it would be for her to dismiss the strange sensations that he made her feel, which were far more frightening than the tales her grandmother had told her about the people on the north side of the island.

  Mabel flashed her trademark gap-toothed grin. “I like it, Debs. I remember hearing my great-grandmomma talk about the rich ladies who’d lived in the big houses. Their so-called grand mansions were falling down around them, yet they still managed to get together most afternoons for tea.”

  “Bless you, Mabel Davis-Kelly. You just gave me my first title for the book club discussion: Kathryn Stockett’s The Help. And I’m going to place an ad in the Chronicle advertising the book club. I have to make certain to emphasize that we will be reading and discussing literary and popular fiction. Those who want to read literature will be in one group, and those who prefer popular fiction will be in another. Each group will be required to read two titles each month and every two weeks we’ll have the discussion. The highbrow ladies will meet every other Tuesday, and the ordinary folk every other Wednesday.”

  “I know what you’re up to, Debs.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, grinning from ear to ear.

  “I bet those snooty heifers will want to read the literary stuff, and us regular people will go for the popular stuff.”

  “You know you ain’t right,” Deborah drawled.

  Mabel sucked her teeth loudly. “I’m as right as rain and you know it. What if they buy their books on those electronic readers, then join the group?”

  “The criteria for joining will be that they have to
buy the book from The Parlor.”

  The wind chime jangled again, and Mabel stood up. “I’ll have Lester make a few cakes for your grand opening. It will be our homecoming gift.”

  “Thanks, friend. We’ll talk later about what I’ll need for my afternoon tea.”

  “It’s not going to be that complicated, Debs. Whatever muffin is the special for that day I’ll make into loaves and cut them into little squares. And for those who have a nut allergy I’ll make shortbread cookies.” She waved her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll hook you up real nice.”

  Deborah squeezed Mabel’s hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Yeah, you would. You’d look for another gap-tooth gal to make you laugh.”

  “You know you’re crazy, Mabel.”

  “Yeah, I know. Crazy like a fox. Let me go and take care of this customer before she starts spreading gossip that I ignored her even though I can’t stand her old ass,” she said sotto voce.

  Deborah watched in awe as Mabel interacted with Hannah Forsyth. Hannah had been the librarian when Deborah was a teenager, and nearly three decades later the woman was still in the position. She was also the Cove’s historian and a notorious gossip. If she’d been a Hollywood gossip columnist, she would’ve become wealthy selling information about the residents of the island.

  Deborah finished her coffee, pulled a bill out of the pocket of her jeans, left it on the counter, and walked out. The drizzle was now a heavy steady rain. Sprinting out the door, she ran through Moss Alley and around the back to The Parlor. By the time she made it into the store she was soaked through.

  She stopped short when she saw Asa staring at her as if she were an apparition. “What’s the matter?” When he didn’t answer she looked down to see what he’d been staring at. Her white blouse was pasted to her chest and the outline of her breasts was clearly visible though her sheer white bra. Curbing the urge to cover her chest, she hunched her shoulders.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and dry off?” Asa suggested.

  Deborah nodded only because she couldn’t speak. It was as if her voice had been locked in her throat, rendering her completely mute. Turning on her heels, she raced up the staircase. Peter was nowhere to be seen and for that she was thankful. Walking into the bathroom, she stripped off her blouse and bra, spreading both over the shower door. Reaching for a towel under the vanity, she blotted the moisture from her arms and chest.

  Deborah stared at her reflection in the mirror over the vanity and then closed her eyes as the area between her thighs throbbed when she recalled the naked hungry lust in Asa’s eyes. Moaning softly, she bit her lip when the throbbing increased until she felt as if she were coming out of her skin.

  I need him. A rush of guilt assailed Deborah’s traitorous thoughts. She’d buried her husband six weeks ago and now she found herself lusting after a man—a stranger who made her feel something she did not want to feel: desire. Pressing her fist to her mouth, she waited until the throbbing eased, then wrapped the towel around her body, tucking the ends together over her breasts. Her jeans were damp, but tolerable.

  Deciding on a bit of ingenuity, Deborah draped her blouse and bra over the back of the dining area chair. Bringing it within a foot of the stove, she turned on the oven, waited for it to heat up, and then opened the oven door. She’d read stories about people using their oven to heat their homes, but she didn’t think it would take that long for her clothes to dry and she’d installed carbon monoxide detectors on both levels. Her drying method may have been a little primitive, but the result would be the same if she’d used her programmable dryer at home.

  Settling down to the chair, she picked up the remote and turned on the flat-screen TV resting on the table across from the bed and seating area. She was so engrossed in a Victorian-period drama that she almost didn’t hear the soft rapping on the closed door.

  Sitting up straight, she pressed a hand over the towel. “Yes?”

  “It’s Asa. May I come in?”

  Though her head said no, her unsteady voice replied, “Yes.”

  Chapter Ten

  Asa held the doorknob for a full minute before deciding to enter the room. Slowly, he closed the distance between them and sat on the sofa. He tried swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat when he found that he couldn’t pull his gaze away from the erotic sight of the soft swell of Deborah’s breasts rising and falling under the towel. Asa also couldn’t get the image of her erect nipples showing through her wet blouse out of his head. It hadn’t mattered that he was a doctor and seeing a naked human body held as much appeal as a dead bug on his windshield. But it was different with Deborah Robinson. She was a very special woman who reminded him that he was a man whose physical urges hadn’t died when he’d buried his wife.

  Sandwiching his hands between his knees, Asa stared at the pattern on the rug under his feet. The chocolate-brown comforter with its large green leaves, the pile of bed pillows, the white window blinds, off-white slipcovers, and the oak wardrobe in an alcove had turned what had been a cold, empty space into an inviting apartment where he hoped to spend many relaxing hours.

  “I like your dryer.” His head came up when Deborah laughed; the sound was like music to his ears. He liked her best when she was laughing.

  “It’s said that necessity is the mother of invention. Maybe I should put in a stackable washer/dryer.”

  “Don’t bother, Debs. I send my clothes out to be cleaned and laundered.”

  “Doesn’t the boardinghouse have laundry service?”

  He nodded slowly. “The first time they did my laundry I got someone else’s underwear. And that told me either they wash everyone’s clothes together, or they got mixed up in the folding phase.” He stood up. “I came up to check on you.”

  “I’m going to give my very unique dryer another half an hour, then I’ll be down.”

  “Take your time, Debs. Peter put up the track lights. He’s now working on installing the fans.”

  Asa wished there was more information he could give her, if only to be in her presence a second longer. When he could think of nothing else to add, he turned and walked away, her image emblazoned in his mind.

  “Look at you!” Crystal squealed when she saw her mother walk in through the side door. She’d just finished taking clothes out of the dryer. “Oh, Mom, you look faboolicious.”

  “I decided it was time to get my hair done.”

  Crystal reached for her mother’s hand. “You also got a mani.”

  Deborah wiggled her toes, painted a soft raspberry color in a pair of flip flops. “And a pedi, and my eyebrows plucked,” she added.

  “Can I get my hair and nails done?” Crystal asked.

  “Sure. But what’s the occasion?” Her daughter only visited the salon when she wanted her hair cut. And she claimed she couldn’t sit still long enough for a manicure and pedicure.

  “I want to go to the school’s Valentine’s Day dance next month. Whitney’s going, so I’ll be with him. Please, Mom.”

  Wrapping an arm around Crystal’s waist, Deborah led her into the kitchen. “Is there someone special that’s going to be at this dance?” She dropped her handbag on a stool near the wall phone and sat at the table with her daughter.

  Crystal affected a bored expression. “He’s not special.”

  “What is he?”

  “He’s just a friend. He lives in Charleston. He asked me to go to the dance with him, but I told him I’m not allowed to date, so we’re going to meet at the school.”

  Reaching across the space separating them, Deborah reached for Crystal, holding her hand gently. “It’s not that you’re not allowed to date. It’s just that I think you’re too young to get involved with a boy.”

  “You were twenty—only five years older than me when you married Dad.”

  “That’s true, but I’d graduated high school and was close to finishing college. Remember, your father had finished and he was teaching. That meant he could support a f
amily. If you get too involved with this boy and heaven forbid you get pregnant, where do you think you’ll end up? By the way, how old is he?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Deborah shook her head. “Fifteen and sixteen. Even if you got a job flipping burgers you can’t work full-time, and that means how are you going to pay rent, buy food, and take care of a baby?”

  Crystal rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to get pregnant.”

  “And why not, Crystal?”

  “Because I’m not going to have sex.”

  “You say that now, but what if you get caught up in the moment and it happens? I’ve always been open with you when it comes to sex and birth control. After your Dad and I were married we decided we would wait five years before we would start a family. It didn’t happen because one night we got caught up in the moment and I found myself pregnant with Whitney. Two years later you came along.”

  “Was I a ‘caught up in the moment’ baby?”

  Deborah tunneled her fingers through her now bone-straight tresses. Whenever she wore her hair straight, she was reminded of photos of her mother, who had been the consummate hippie with long, curly auburn hair, bell-bottom pants, sandals, colorful dashiki, and love beads.

  “No, baby. We planned to have you.”

  “That’s nice to know. Back to the dance, Mom. I want a dress and heels.”

  This boy must really be something if my daughter wants to put on a pair of high heels, Deborah mused. “Do you know what type of dress and heels you want?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been going through magazines looking for one. Shoes aren’t as important.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Crystal. Accessories can make or break an outfit. You can look through my closet and try on a few of my shoes and see what style you like.” She and her daughter had the same size foot, and Deborah’s weakness had always been shoes and handbags.

  “Can I wear the pair with the black silk bow?”