The Widows of Sea Trail (The Widows of Sea Trail Trilogy)

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  “Hey beautiful. And I do mean beautiful. What a lovely dress.”

  I had to keep myself from doing a pirouette to show off the back. I hadn’t known until I’d put it on that the slender straps crisscrossed over my shoulder blades and left my lower back bare to just below my waist. I had come back to the mirror many times, my head turning so I could look over my shoulder to admire the graceful lines and the way it showcased my tanned back. I smiled; he’d see the back soon enough. In fact, I purposely backed up into the foyer so as not to spoil the surprise too soon. Let him at least get into the house before I brought him to his knees, I thought.

  “Hi. Thank you. My mother sent it.”

  “She’s got good taste,” he said as he walked into the house. Then I spun around and led the way into the living area.

  “And an agenda,” he mumbled as he followed me. “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. Mmmm mmm.”

  I turned just in time to see him shake his head and blink his eyes hard. It was hard not to smile in satisfaction. In fact I had to bite into my lower lip to make sure that I didn’t.

  “Would you like a drink? The Sugar Shack only serves wine and beer but I thought we could start off the evening with a rum punch.”

  “That sounds wonderful. Can I help?”

  “No, just have a seat, I already have some made up.” I went over to the refrigerator, careful to step lightly on the heels so I wouldn’t slip on the tile floor, and took down the pitcher.

  When I tuned to put it on the counter, I was surprised to see him on a bar stool watching me. I had thought he would have taken a seat on the sofa.

  “Yes, that is one mighty fine dress,” he said.

  I blushed as I moved around the kitchen getting glasses, cocktail napkins, and the fruit skewered umbrellas I had made up earlier. When I handed him his drink, he removed the umbrella and sucked off the pineapple and cherry before replacing it. The heat from his eyes practically shimmered in the air between us and I instinctively reached for my glass on the counter. I quickly put it to my lips and in the process jabbed the umbrella tip into my eye.

  He was off the stool and holding my head before I could even cry out. Then he was dabbing at the tears flowing down my cheeks with his handkerchief while he examined my eye.

  “How bad does it hurt? Let me get you some ice. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

  “No, no, it’s okay. It didn’t go in. It just grazed my lid. I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, it’s just my pride that’s wounded, that’s all.”

  “Well, that we can fix easily enough.” He bent and put his lips to the corner of my eye, and then he kissed the lid itself. The soft caress of his hands cupping my face and his lips moving over my eyelid sent sharp tingly feelings up my arms. He stood back and I thought he was going to release me, but instead he bent and brushed his lips lightly over mine. It was the lightest of touches and then he told me why.

  “I don’t want to mess up your pretty lips, but later, count on having no trace of lipstick left on those luscious lips.” Those tingly feelings returned only this time they weren’t limited to my arms, I felt them everywhere, stoking little fires that made me want to melt right down to the floor.

  He stepped back, dropped his hands, walked around the counter and retook his seat. Then he lifted his drink, made a big deal about showing me how to remove the umbrella and hoisted his glass. “Hoch soll sie leben!”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s German for long may she live.”

  “Well, thank you. If I’m a little more careful, I might have a better shot at it.” I smiled over at him and when he smiled back I found it hard to break contact with his eyes. He was feasting as I was feasting, and it was obvious that we both liked what we saw.

  He cleared his throat and said, “You know I was instantly attracted to you that night we met at the condo. So much so that when I went to get the popcorn, I tucked a few Trojans in my pocket and that’s not like me. I usually like to get to know someone before . . . well, you know. And I wasn’t really looking to get involved with anyone.”

  “Really?”

  “Truly. Since I started working on the bid for this factory, it has been number one on my mind. Chasing women? Not so much.”

  “Are you chasing me? ‘Cause I don’t remember running.”

  He laughed and grabbed his drink. After a few quick swallows, he stood and said, “Well, I’m anxious to get you into my car.”

  “Why?”

  He simply raised his eyebrows. Suddenly I knew exactly what he meant.

  “Maybe I should change my clothes.”

  “Don’t you dare!” He said with a huge grin, “Don’t you dare.”

  I smiled and let him take my arm. He took my keys and locked the door behind us, then walked me to his car.

  “There are a few options here,” he said as he opened the door. “I could let you get in by yourself, even turn my back. I could help you get in, thereby precluding any uh . . . lecherous leering, or you could step in feet first instead of getting into the seat and swinging your legs around.”

  “Why didn’t you bring the Escalade?”

  “No good reason really but I can’t say I regret my intuition,” he replied with a smirk.

  I looked out to the road and noticed that there were no cars, no bikers, and no joggers. I hiked the skirt of my dress up to well past my upper thighs, unintentionally giving him a glimpse of my lavender panties before I quickly slid into the leather bucket seat.

  “Seems there’s a fourth option,” he managed to choke out as he closed the car door before walking around to the driver’s side door.

  I smiled at his chagrin while I rearranged my dress under me. When he got behind the wheel, he chuckled. “You live up to your name don’t you?”

  I gave him a puzzled look.

  “Cat. Sassy, sleek and just the kitten I want to cuddle up to.” His hand covered my thigh and he inched my dress up to where I had hiked it. Then he grabbed the gearshift and rammed the car into first gear before starting the engine. He roared out of the driveway and didn’t bother to do more than a cursory stop at the stop sign on the corner before shifting into second and then immediately into third. Every time he shifted, he managed to run his fingertips up or down my thigh.

  Linda was thrilled to see me. I hadn’t really been a regular, but we’d had some nice talks the few times Stephen had brought me there. And she’d sent me a nice sympathy card when Stephen had passed. She led us to a table and when Matt’s back was to us, she gave an enthusiastic nod of approval and patted me on the back. Then she praised my dress and told me I looked far too beautiful to eat ribs tonight and suggested the house specialty—the jerk platter.

  As Matt seated me he nodded to Linda and asked for a wine menu. I watched as he settled in, his elbows on the edge of the table, his hands tented with his chin on them. “So, tell me what you’ve been doing this week.”

  I smiled, “Your life sounds far more interesting. I’ve only been here on the plantation, doing some planting in the flower beds, and cleaning out some closets.” He didn’t need to know that I had finally managed to take Stephen’s clothes to the shelters. “Oh, and I had lunch with Viv and Tessa, and then with some of my neighbors.”

  “So, you like to work in the garden?”

  “No, not really. Do you know Sue Beebe?” “Yes, I met her at couple’s golf.”

  I was dying to know whom he’d been paired with,

  but I didn’t want to sound . . . well, possessive. “Well Sue told me about these special bags that you fill with dirt. They have slits all over them and you plant seedlings from petunias, or impatiens, or some other annual in the holes. Then a week or two after they’ve taken hold you hang the bag up against a tree or on a post. I did two of them and they really look terrific. I like my yard to look nice but I really don’t have the knack for gardening. My husband used to do all the gardening. I keep thinking that my life
is more suited to a condo now than to a house.”

  “You have a beautiful home. But I’m sure it’s a lot more work for one than it was for two.”

  “Yeah. I have to hire professionals to power wash and to do the heavy yard work like mowing, mulching and pruning. I don’t know how to use the tools and apparently every single blasted plant comes with a different set of rules. I forgot to do the Crepe Myrtles one year and they became trees, then the next year I cut them back too far and they started fanning out like bushes on stalks. My neighbor finally came over and showed me how to trim them. I just don’t have an affinity for plants. I either over water, over fertilize or woefully neglect my plants in cycles. It’s a wonder anything’s green.”

  “Not aiming for Yard of the Month, huh?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding, I’m just working on not getting a raft of notices from the P.O.A. telling me to leave town.”

  He chuckled and I looked up just in time to see his eyes sparkle with genuine humor. He was having a good time, and so was I.

  While we dined on samples of jerk pork and chicken, and the best steak to be had in North Carolina, I regaled him with tales of my two zany friends. I did not however tell him about our Affecting Spell, and how miraculously, he had shown up just a few days later at Dick’s and then later running with his dog.

  We talked about his job, where he had traveled and where he would soon be headed, and about his second home in Virginia where he had been raised.

  “With Mom and Dad gone, I keep thinking I should sell it and get a condo, but my sisters aren’t ready for that. And to be honest, I’m not ready to clean out the attic! My mom was the queen of kitsch.” He sounded melancholy, but also proud.

  “Kitsch?”

  “Knick knacks, collectibles, dolls, plates, paintings, you name it. One year it would be Thomas Kincade and all manner of English countryside clutter would be everywhere. The next year it would be Hummels, or Christmas Villages, or Boyd’s Bears, you name it, she was into it. But never for long, something new always came along and then she would start collecting all over again. I had to go behind her back and throw out the Franklin Mint catalogues before they could come into the house.”

  We talked about his dog, Folsum, and about Gimlet, my own little fluff of joy, and what a difference pets made in our lives. Then I dropped the bombshell. “I saw you in Virginia once.”

  “What?”

  “I saw you, in Virginia.” I watched as his brows went together in concentration and he looked at me so intently that I felt my face heat. An odd look came over his face and it occurred to me that he might have had some stalker issues in the past. Aman this good-looking would leave broken hearts behind and not all women handled that well.

  “I don’t remember, and I’m sure I would have, where did we meet?” the worried look on his face was carefully masked but it was still there.

  He sure was good looking enough to make a woman feel compelled to do the chasing. But if there was one thing I had already figured out about Matt, it was that he was always going to be the aggressor, his last name even spelled it out for you. He was the Hunter, not the hunted. But it was fun to watch anxiety cross his stern features and to see him off guard, suddenly unsure of something in his arena. I wasn’t quite ready to let him off the hook.

  “Well, actually I’m very glad that you don’t remember, it was a day that I was definitely not at my best.”

  He had his fork raised in mid air as he continued to study my face. His eyes narrowed, I could practically see his mind rolling back through time as he tried to place me. Then I saw a look of recognition cross his features and he blinked his eyes wide. “Dick’s,” he whispered. “The lady at Dick’s.”

  I was stunned. “How could you possibly come up with that? I don’t look anything like I did that day.”

  “Yes, yes you do, you actually do.” He continued to stare, assessing every feature. “Except your hair, it’s a different color. It was in a cap wasn’t it, and it was red or auburn?”

  “The cap was red, burgundy really. A ridiculous cap, my brother’s actually. A very old Redskins hand-medown.”

  “You were going to the ladies room.”

  “You were looking at a weight machine.”

  “You had the most amazing eyes.”

  I sat back, my own eyes wide now and stared at him. “What? You didn’t even look at me.”

  “Oh yes, I did. And I would have.”

  “You would have what?”

  He picked up his glass of wine and took a big sip, and then he cleared his throat as if stalling, unsure if he should go on. After a long pause he decided to expound.

  “Every time a man sees a woman, in the blink of an eye his subconscious decides two things: Whether he would or he wouldn’t, and whether he would fight for the privilege or not. I would have on both counts.”

  “Would have what?”

  “Have had sex with you.”

  I choked on my wine. “What?”

  “I would have had sex with you. Providing of course if you’d wanted me to, we’re not Neanderthals anymore, I wouldn’t have just dragged you off to the nearest cave.”

  I put my glass down and shook my head. “Are you saying that on a chance encounter with someone you know absolutely nothing about, you decide if you’re going to have sex with them or not?”

  “No. No. It’s not like that. It’s not something men consciously do, really, but yeah, everyone gets a rating. A yea or a nay vote. And we’re only talking about women here, by the way, at least in my case. It’s a quick decision, automatic-like, it happens in the blink of an eye.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well then, if you decide yea, you have to decide if you’re going to pursue it. And, if she’s already spoken for, if you’re going to fight for her.”

  “Really?” I was fascinated but at the same time insulted for my sex.

  He began forking food into his mouth, clearly uncomfortable with my reaction to this conversation and trying to ignore the palpable tension between us as I envisioned steam all but coming out of my ears.

  “And you decided yea on me in that very small amount of time that I was asking for directions to the ladies room?”

  “Yeah, I did. I remember. But I didn’t pursue. Remember, I didn’t pursue.”

  As if he thought that was going to placate me. “Pray tell, why not?” There was sarcasm in my reply, but I don’t think he picked up on it.

  “You were married. I saw a wedding ring on your finger. I liked you well enough, but I wasn’t willing to fight for you if you were married. Mind you, it’s not like there’s a shortage of available women around Washington.”

  I was really steaming now, but I reeled in my temper and bit my tongue. But I honestly didn’t think he even noticed. I did however look down at my hand, to the finger I had worn my wedding band on. Coincidentally, I had taken it off just that day, right after Easter dinner as I had packed to return to North Carolina. I had pledged to become available and saw my wedding ring as a detriment to getting six dates. I didn’t want to give anyone who was interested a reason not to consider me for one. So I had taken it off and packed it. I remember Mom had been pleased when she’d noticed at breakfast the next morning.

  “Well, I can hardly believe that you would have entertained ideas of seducing me, and I certainly can’t believe that you would have fought for me. I was distressingly pathetic that day.” It didn’t play out to be angry, as he hadn’t even noticed. So I decided to find out more, to take that little germ of “yea, he would have” and to find out exactly what he had seen in me. What had he seen in those pitifully few seconds that would have made him arrive at that instantaneous decision that he would have thrown me on the bench press and had his way with me? I had to know. “What did you base your decision on, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  He picked up his wineglass and took several sips but I could tell he was thinking back. Then he nodded as if to himself.

  “Your
eyes spoke of innocence and passion, a lethal combination to a man.”

  “I had on an old coat, a ridiculous hat, and I was ten pounds overweight. Where’s the passion in that?”

  “Men don’t see women the same way that they see themselves. We see past the clothes; generally we try to see through the clothes. And we like our women a bit fleshier than common convention. Women decide the fashion, and they decide slimmer is better. Most men are of the opposite opinion on that though. As for the hat, I rarely make love to a woman who’s wearing one.”

  I cringed. Yet at the same time the thought of him poised over me, penetrating me, making love, as he had said, shot me full of a white-hot current; every fiber reacted to this man sitting across from me. This man who sounded like a machine: yea, nay, yea, yea, nay, nay, nay. How many women was he capable of saying yea to? Did the fact that he would give me a passing grade mean that I was just a whim to him? Was now the time for the safe sex questions? Because no matter how he answered those questions, he had said yea, and knowing that he had wanted me from the very first moment we’d laid eyes on each other was doing incredible things to me.

  He reached over and took my hand in his. “Cat, I’ve been making fun with you, I’m sorry. It’s obvious that you’re taking this seriously, way too seriously. Yes, men do rate women, but women rate men, too. We don’t always act on those impulses. I see hundreds of women who make me think, ‘Yeah, that would be nice, I could do her,’but most of them are in magazines, or women you see on the street. But that doesn’t mean I seriously want them, I just want them for a few seconds, enough to remind me that I’m a man and that I’m attracted to beautiful women. So you were a passing fancy, I voted yea, but I probably voted yea to at least ten other women that day.”

  Abruptly, I pulled my hand away. When I sat straighter and lifted a brow, he quickly added, “And I probably said nay to over a hundred. You saw me that day, which category did you place me in?”