First Things First
Page 22
Beatrice London looked at her for a long minute. “I never thought I’d be saying this, but you may be right there. Samuel looks better than he has in years. Oh, I can do without the mustache, and his hair’s still too long, but he very clearly is happy.” She arched both brows. “I still don’t understand what made him miserable before. But something did, to such an extent that he took off and stayed away for nearly seven months. It’s very possible that he would still be in Mexico had it not been for you. So in a way, dear, you did earn that money. I could still—”
“No!” Chelsea burst out, then lowered her voice. “Please. Not another word about that.”
Beatrice gave her pseudo-shrug. “As you wish … But getting back to what I was saying, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather have Samuel here, with whomever and doing whatever he chooses, than to have him in self-imposed exile.” When she looked at Chelsea then, there was the faintest glimmer of surrender in her dark eyes. “I want you to know that I won’t stand in the way of your marriage, Chelsea. If this is what Samuel wants, I’ll give him all support I can.”
Chelsea knew that Beatrice had said all she wanted to. No, she hadn’t offered an apology, or extended a welcome or put on a show of warmth. But Chelsea didn’t want that. At least now she knew where she stood.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, sincerely. “I’d appreciate that.”
To her surprise, Mrs. London ventured a half smile. “I have to admit that, between the two of you, you’ll make beautiful children.”
Chelsea blushed. “I think so too.”
As though on cue, Sam returned, sitting down at the table with a nonchalance Chelsea would later chide him on. Oh, he was crafty, but she loved him. Lord, how she loved him!
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER Chelsea and Sam lay curled snugly against each other in bed. It wasn’t the double bed in her Cambridge apartment, or the platform bed in his waterfront condo, but the four-poster bed in the rustic country home they’d passed papers on several days before.
“Like it?” he asked softly.
“The bed? I love it.”
“The cabin. Do you like the cabin?”
“I love it!”
“It needs lots of work.”
“That’s Samuel Prescott London talking. My Sam knows that if we’d wanted something modern and elegant we’d have bought it. We have modern and elegant enough in the city. This place is a weekend retreat. It’s perfect. Unimposing, relaxing, serene. Isn’t that what you said when you first saw it?”
“Mmm. I just want to make sure you’re happy with it.”
“How could I not be happy?” She propped her chin on his chest. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”
“For better or for worse.” He kissed her nose, then let his head fall back to the pillow. “But this place is pretty primitive. Some people would consider it‘for worse.”’
She grinned. “Not me. A two-seater outhouse is pure luxury.”
He chuckled. “By comparison, I suppose you’re right.”
“Is that why you fell in love with this place—because it reminds you of the pueblito?”
“Not really. But it represents many of the things I had and felt there. Peace. Freedom. Yes, serenity. It’ll give us a place to escape to.” He ran his hand down her spine, then tightened his arms around her. “Every weekend. I’ll like that.”
“I’ll like it when it gets cold up here. That Franklin stove looks great! And,” she tacked on in a drawl, “I loved watching you chop wood today.”
“Hmph. I didn’t get as much done as I’d hoped. You distracted me.”
“I’ve always wanted to make love outdoors. And in our own woods—what could be better?”
“It was pretty good, wasn’t it?”
“Mmmm.” She thought back to that passionate interlude. It never failed to amaze her that things between them could get better and better. “You’ve really come a long way, haven’t you?”
“In lovemaking?”
“In relaxing. No more tension headaches?”
“Nope.”
“No more high blood pressure?”
“Nope.”
“You’re as fit as you were in Mexico … . Now if we can only do something about those pin-striped suits … .”
He tickled her ribs and, laughing, she tried to escape his fingers, but he wouldn’t let her go. “Stop that, Samuel!”
“Oh, God, you’re not going to call me that, are you?”
“Only when you misbehave.”
“I’m not misbehaving. At least, not yet.”
Grinning, she tipped up her head so that she could see his face. He was looking down at her, eyes half-lidded, lips relaxed. “I do like it when you misbehave,” she said more softly. She touched his face with fingers that trembled slightly. “I love you very, very much. But then, you know that, don’t you?”
His mustache twitched at one side as he gave her a crooked grin. “It’s okay. Say it as often as you want. As often as you want.”
She did.
Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky’s upcoming book
SWEET SALT AIR
In hardcover in 2013 from St. Martin’s Press
Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.
But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.
When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.
She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.
There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt-and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.
The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.
The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.
Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.
But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.
Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.
Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no
ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.
Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.
Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.
Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.
Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.
But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.
“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.
His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. "What does it look like?”
“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. "Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”
He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.
He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.
Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.
Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.
Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.
Leo had been nabbed for selling grass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.
Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.
“Want some help?” she called up.
He snorted.
“Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.
“Two hands’ll do.”
Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.
“I’ve done this before,” she said now.
“Uh-huh.”
“I have. I’ve built houses.”
“That so.” He didn’t believe her.
“Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados decimated parts of Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”
He continued to stare.
“All you need,” she said, freeing a hand to hold back the hair that fluttered loose again, "is someone to steady it while you fit the pins in the hinges.”
“Really. I didn’t know that.”
“Okay,” she granted. “So you did. But you could’ve had that hung and been down five minutes ago. Aren’t you cold?” She was appreciating every thick inch of her sweater, while his arms were ropy and bare.
“I’m a man.”
She waited for more. When nothing came, she said, "What does that have to do with it?”
“Men run hot.”
“Really.” Refusing to be baited, she returned her hand to her armpit, shifted to a more comfortable stance, and smiled. "Great. I’ll watch while you get that shutter hung. Maybe I can learn how you do it alone.”
Apparently realizing he’d been one-upped, he said, "Fine. Since you know it all, here’s your chance.” He backed down, put the shutter on the ground against his leg, and gestured her toward the ladder.
“I’m not lugging that thing up,” she said.
“No, but if you get up there, I can hold the shutter while you do the fitting. Assuming you can see. Your hair’s a mess.”
“Thanks,” she said brightly and gripped the rail. Two ladders would have been better. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of climbing this one with him at her butt. She would be at his mercy. But she did have a point to prove.
So she began to climb, looking back every few rungs to see where he was. When she reached the top, she felt his shoulder against the back of her thighs. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said he was making sure she didn’t fall.
But she did know better. Leo Cole had no use for women, or so the story went. If he was standing that close, he was toying with her.
She didn’t like being toyed with—and, yes, her hair was in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pushing it back. Fortunately, she knew enough about hanging shutters to do it, hair and all. While he bore the weight of the wood, she easily lined up both pairs of hinges and pins, and that quickly it was done.
Nearly as quickly, he backed down the ladder. By the time she reached the ground, he was stowing the hammer in a tool box. The instant she was off the last rung, he reached for the ladder.
“You’re welcome,” Charlotte said.
He shot her a flat look.
“I’m Charlotte Evans.”
“I know.”
THE FOREVER INSTINCT
FIRST THINGS FIRST
STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART
THE SCENT OF JASMINE
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Look for these classic romances–now available as e-books–from beloved bestselling author
Barbara Delinsky
THE FOREVER INSTINCT
FIRST THINGS FIRST
STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART
THE SCENT OF JASMINE
Coming soon...
WHAT THE WAVES BRING
HOME FIRES
Available in July 2012
PICTURES OF YOU
DON’T TEMPT ME
Available in September 2012
SILKEN SANDS
HOLD MY HEART
Available in November 2012
CALL MY NAME
AMBER’S EMBRACE
Available in January 2013
From St. Martin’s Press
And stay tuned for these special two-in-one editions
WARM HEARTS
Heat Wave and A Special Something
Available in October 2012
LOVE SONGS
Up All Night and Sweet Serenity
Available in February 2013
From St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Also from Barbara Delinsky
ESCAPE
NOT MY DAUGHTER
WHILE MY SISTER SLEEPS
THE SECRET BETWEEN US
FAMILY TREE
COAST ROAD
LAKE NEWS
THE WOMAN NEXT DOOR
MORE THAN FRIENDS
THREE WISHES
Available wherever books are sold
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
FIRST THINGS FIRST. Copyright © 1985 by Barbara Delinsky.
Excerpt from Sweet Salt Air copyright © 2012 by Barbara Delinsky.
Cover art ©° Vstock LLC/Getty Images
All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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eISBN 9781250019165
First eBook Edition: May 2012