by Terri DuLong
The doorbell interrupted my thoughts. Grabbing a sweater and my bag, I headed to the living room to open the door.
Despite what I had been thinking a few minutes before, when I saw Worth standing on the porch wearing jeans, an open-collar shirt, and a navy blazer, I felt good. I’m not sure if it was the way his eyes quickly scanned my body or the sexy smile on his face, but not only did I feel good, I knew for certain that Chloe had been right about him being hot.
“All set?” he asked.
“I am.” I hollered to Oliver to be a good boy and take care of the house. “My mother’s gone to a friend’s for dinner,” I explained.
It was then that I noticed the vehicle parked in the driveway. A silver Porsche Carrera convertible. I looked at the car, looked up at Worth, and blurted, “Is that your car?”
“Yeah, but I can put the top up if you’d prefer.”
Here was a car worth more than four hundred thousand dollars and he thought I was worried about the wind? I recovered my composure and said, “Oh, no. That’s fine. It’s just . . . I thought you drove a truck. I saw the truck parked in front of the yarn shop.”
He threw his head back and laughed as he opened the door for me to slide in. “Oh, I use the truck for work. I went to Ocala this afternoon and brought the car back with me. Would you have preferred I kept the truck?”
I glanced at him as he walked around the car and got in. He was serious, not joking.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. No. This is fine.”
Fine? I thought as he backed out of the driveway and headed toward Gulf Boulevard. Oh. My. God. I had never been in a car this luxurious. Or expensive. I settled back in the leather seat and allowed myself to soak it up. The speed limit was only twenty, but the wind still managed to blow through my hair and make me feel incredibly carefree.
“Were you busy this afternoon at the shop?” he asked, making me realize that this magnificent piece of machinery was simply a means of transportation to him. Here I was just about drooling and he was asking about my afternoon.
“Yes,” I said, now focusing on him. “Yes, we were. Fridays usually bring the tourists. Was everything okay at your home? You hadn’t been there for a while, had you?”
“Right. A little over a week, but everything is fine. I have a woman who comes in to check on things and clean.”
I shifted in my seat to get a better look at him, and that was when I became aware of the close proximity we were physically sharing. And I liked it.
“Will you be going back to Ocala tonight?” I asked as he pulled into the parking lot at the Island Room.
“No. I’ll be working on the shop again tomorrow and I’ll head back to Ocala on Sunday to drop this off and get my truck.”
Before I had my seat belt unclipped, Worth had walked around and opened my door. He doesn’t just drive a killer car; he’s also a gentleman, I thought as I stepped out to join him.
Walking into the restaurant, I felt his hand at the small of my back guiding me through the door, and I stupidly almost tripped as we approached the podium to be seated.
His hand shot out to grab my arm. “Are you okay?”
“Just feeling dumb,” I said and laughed. “My heel caught on the carpet.”
We were directed to a table outside and I was grateful for the cool air on my flushed cheeks.
After we gave our order for wine, Worth leaned back in his chair, smiled across the table at me, and said, “This is nice.”
He was right. Sitting across from him, just the two of us, it was nice. I returned his smile. “It is, and thank you for inviting me to dinner.”
He leaned forward with his elbows resting on the table edge. “My pleasure. Now . . . tell me about yourself.”
I laughed. “I have a feeling you probably know way more than you ever wanted to.”
“That’s not true, but I mean tell me about you. What you like. What you don’t like. Your favorite books or movies. Those sorts of things.”
I was reminded of Andrew and how I always felt like I was boring him when I wanted to share any of those subjects with him.
“Oh . . . well.” I paused as our wine was brought to the table and Worth told the server to give us some time before we looked at the menus. “Let’s see. Favorite books? I have a variety of favorite authors, so my reading tastes are a bit eclectic. But my favorite book is probably To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Worth nodded. “Good choice.” He lifted his glass to touch mine and said, “Here’s to a long and lasting friendship.”
I smiled and took a sip. “And favorite movie? That would have to be Casablanca.”
“Another good choice. Favorite type of food?”
“Hmm, definitely French, with Italian as a close second.”
“I agree. And how about flowers? What would be your favorite?”
Without hesitating, I said, “Oh, yellow roses. I adore them. But I also love lilacs and lily of the valley. My turn—favorite book and movie?”
“I’m afraid I’m not quite as decisive as you are. I read a lot of nonfiction, history, politics, and I have read all of Saxton’s mysteries. I enjoy his novels a lot. And believe it or not, my favorite movie is also Casablanca.”
I smiled. It would have been easy for him to fib, but I knew that he hadn’t. I was beginning to realize there were a few things I definitely liked about Worth, and his genuine sincerity was one of them.
By the time we’d ordered dinner, both of us choosing escargot and duck confit, I marveled at how comfortable I felt in his company. There had been no groping for a topic to discuss, no nodding of the head to be polite, no awkward silences. We discussed a variety of topics, and I discovered I loved listening to him, but even more surprising was that he never took his eyes from mine and he made me feel special.
Dinner was followed with coffee as we finished off the last of the wine. I realized he hadn’t questioned me at all about speaking with the attorney on Wednesday, but I knew it wasn’t because he wasn’t interested. It was because he knew it was up to me if I wanted to share the information.
“The dinner was wonderful, Worth. Thank you again.”
He nodded and glanced out to the water and the lights now twinkling on Dock Street. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, because I did too.”
“I spoke with the attorney,” I said as I twisted the napkin in my lap.
“Hmm, and how did that go?”
“Well, I was right. Fiona Caldwell is Andrew’s daughter.”
He nodded but said nothing.
“But because Andrew is now dead, it’s all become a bit more complicated as far as the money in that account,” I said and started at the beginning to tell him what I had learned.
When I finished, he reached across the table to grasp my hand. “And how are you dealing with all of this?”
It was difficult to focus on his question when I could feel the warmth of his hand on mine.
“Probably not well,” I said after a few moments. “Not well at all. I still haven’t even called Fiona.”
“There’s no rush. I think you need some time to absorb all of this. Give yourself that time.”
He was right. But the longer I delayed speaking to Andrew’s daughter, the longer all of this would be hanging over my head, and I verbalized this to Worth.
He nodded as he let go of my hand and sat back in his chair. “Do you honestly think that once you sign those documents that will be the end of it?”
Chalk up another trait I liked about Worth. He had a way of saying something that enabled me to face the truth; this very thought had been running through my mind for two days.
I blew out a breath of air. “I had hoped it would.”
“Have you given any thought to the fact that Fiona might want to meet you? Might want to meet her half brothers?”
I had, and that was when I would push the situation from my mind.
“Yes, but I’ve tried not to think about it. Because I honestly don’t know how I feel about this or wha
t I would tell her.”
“Exactly. This is why I’m saying you need time. Time to set everything right in your mind.” He paused for a moment, putting his hand on top of mine. “And don’t take this the wrong way—but the attorney is right. No matter what, Fiona isn’t to be blamed for any of this.”
13
I woke on Sunday morning with the sun streaming through my windows. I stretched and glanced at the bedside clock. Seven-thirty. Later than I normally slept, but I knew that stress easily caused fatigue. I recalled Worth’s invitation from Friday evening when he brought me home and felt a smile cross my face. He had asked if I’d like to take a drive with him later this morning to return his car to his home, and intelligent woman that I am, of course I accepted.
Walking into the kitchen, I was greeted by Oliver.
“Good morning, fella,” I said as I stroked his ears and headed to the coffeepot. I saw my mother sitting on the patio, poured myself a mug, and joined her.
“Good morning,” she said, folding up the newspaper she had been reading. “How are you this morning?”
“Good.” I inhaled the wonderful scent of salt air on the breeze. “What are your plans for today?”
“Since you’ll be gone, I accepted Maude’s invitation to lunch.”
“Oh, good. Be sure to tell her I said hello.” I heard the phone inside the house ring. “I’ll get it.”
I answered to hear my younger son’s voice. “John, how are you? How’s everything in Beantown?”
His laughter came across the line. “I’m good, and so is Boston. How’re you doing?”
“Fairly well,” I said, trying not to feel guilty for not sharing the news I now had. “So what’s up? Your job is going well?”
“It is. The leaves are beginning to turn up here now. I think I’m going to like New England in autumn.”
Having been raised in the South, I could understand that. “Well, I hope you’ll like it just as much once that snow starts falling.”
John laughed again. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll mind. Listen, Mom, the main reason I’m calling . . .”
I could hear the hesitation in his voice. “Are you okay?” Why is it when an adult child sounds nervous, a mom always thinks a terrible tragedy is about to befall him?
“Oh, yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” he quickly reassured me. “It’s just that . . . I hope you won’t mind, but I won’t be coming home for Thanksgiving this year.”
“Oh,” was all I could manage to say.
“Yeah, well, we only get the Friday off with the weekend, so a bunch of my friends thought we’d just all pitch in and cook Thanksgiving dinner together. One of the guys has a place in Cambridge, so we’re going to go there rather than try to book flights for a quick trip home.”
“Oh, I see,” I said and hated that I sounded bitchy.
“Are you okay with this, Mom? I mean, I figured that Jason would be there, and I promise I’ll be home for Christmas.”
Get a grip, Marin. No kid likes a control-freak mom.
“Yes, of course I’m okay with it, but, no, Jason won’t be home this year either. Apparently, he has a girlfriend and they’re going to her parents’ home in Connecticut for the weekend.”
“Oh, really? He’s going to September’s family?”
My disappointment quickly morphed to jealousy. “You knew about your brother’s girlfriend?” I questioned, feeling terribly left out.
“Yeah, they flew up to Boston for a weekend a couple months ago, so we got together for dinner.”
It was times like this that I knew how hurtful parenting could be. And yet, wasn’t that the point of raising a child? To raise them so well that they are fully prepared to go out and face their world—even without you.
I cleared my throat and blinked back the moisture I felt in my eyes. “Oh, that was nice that they came to Boston. So . . . what did you think of her?”
“I liked her. She’s very pretty, but even better . . . she’s intelligent.”
I smiled and realized that one statement said volumes about how Andrew and I had raised our sons.
“So is it okay, Mom? That I won’t be there for Thanksgiving?”
I smiled again. Here was my twenty-two-year-old son basically asking my permission to skip a family Thanksgiving, when no permission was even required.
“Well, you know Grandma and I will miss you and Jason both, but . . . of course it’s okay. What’s your contribution for the dinner?”
“Oh, another thing I meant to ask you—could you e-mail me Grandma’s recipe for squash casserole?”
I shook my head and laughed. “Ah, you won’t be down here in the South with us, so you want some of the South up there with you, huh? Yes, I’ll send it off to you this week.”
“Thanks, Mom. Love you, and I’ll talk to you soon.”
I stood for a few moments holding the phone in my hand and let out a sigh. I couldn’t lie. I was very disappointed that this would be my first Thanksgiving without my sons. But I attempted to brush off my mood and headed back outside to tell my mother, who, of course, took it better than I had.
“Oh, that is too bad that neither boy will be with us, but I guess that was bound to happen eventually. But we’ll be surrounded by family, Marin. This year it’s Sydney’s turn to do Thanksgiving, and I’m doing Christmas here. So Monica and Adam will also be there with the children.”
This did manage to brighten my mood a bit.
My face was uplifted, capturing the sun as the wind blew through my hair and Worth turned the Porsche onto SR 27 in Bronson. Unlike Friday evening on the island, with a speed limit of twenty, once we left Cedar Key and he was able to increase the speed on 24, I could really appreciate the car he owned. I felt like I was floating, and with Springsteen’s voice coming from the Bose speakers, it was difficult to remember the last time I had had such a sense of freedom.
“Not much longer down 27,” I heard Worth say, and I nodded. I wasn’t sure I ever wanted this ride to end. But about fifteen minutes later he was pulling into a long, paved driveway. A tunnel of live oaks partially obscured the enormous house at the end.
I sat up straighter in my seat. Wow was the only word that immediately came to mind as an image of Southfork from the TV series Dallas flashed before my eyes. The house was redbrick, two stories, and, just guessing, I’d say it was at least five thousand square feet.
Not wanting to gush and trying to contain my amazement, I thought, I’m impressed, but only said, “It’s beautiful, Worth. Absolutely beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he said simply as he pulled the car into the circular drive.
We walked to the entrance, where he unlocked the door. When we stepped into the huge foyer, he punched a code into the pad on the wall, deactivating the alarm system.
“Welcome,” he said in a tone of voice that was absent of ego, gesturing with his arm. He could have been inviting me into a small, moderate home and not this elaborate domain that oozed money and success. “Come on in the kitchen. How about a mimosa? And then I’ll give you a tour, if you like.”
“Sure,” I said, following him to the back of the house along a wide hallway framed on each side with photos. I wanted to stop and take time to stare at each face on the wall, but I kept walking.
I entered a designer kitchen that I was sure would be the envy of even Paula Deen. It was large, bright, and cheerful, with a multitude of oak cabinets surrounding the circular room and a huge rectangular oak island in the center.
“Have a seat,” Worth said, indicating the tall captain’s chairs at one side of the island. He proceeded to open the oversize stainless steel fridge and remove a plate of various cut cheeses along with a bowl of green and black olives soaking in olive oil and herbs. “Help yourself,” he said, adding breadsticks and crackers to another plate.
“Do you need any help?” I asked, suddenly feeling like I should be serving him.
“No. Not at all. Just have to get this open.” He had removed a bottle of champagne from t
he fridge and expertly popped the cork without spilling a drop. Filling two crystal flutes halfway, he then topped them off with what I was sure was fresh-squeezed orange juice.
I had a feeling that a phone call to his cleaning lady had arranged all of this.
He leaned across the island, that sexy smile covering his face, as he lifted his flute toward me. “Here’s to friendship and many good times ahead.”
I noticed that his words were a bit more personal than his toast of Friday evening. “To friendship and good times,” I repeated before taking a sip. I was right. It was fresh-squeezed juice. “Delicious.”
“Good. I’m glad you like it.”
I glanced out the windows that looked to the back of the house. A flagstone patio held chairs, tables, and at the far end an in-ground pool. Beyond that were acres of land.
“So,” I said. “This is quite the place. Especially for one person.”
Worth nodded. “Yeah. Now you can probably see why I want to sell it.”
I wasn’t sure that I could. “Won’t you miss it, though? Wouldn’t it be difficult giving up something like this?”
He took a sip of his mimosa before answering, and I could have been mistaken, but the expression that crossed his face looked like sadness. “It’s only a house,” was all he said. “Come on, take your drink and I’ll show you around.”
We walked through the dining room off the kitchen into a huge great room. For as large as the house was, it didn’t have a stuffy feeling. Two buttery yellow leather sofas were arranged in front of a fieldstone fireplace. Matching club chairs with ottomans were placed before enormous French doors giving a view out to the patio and pool. I noticed beautiful framed paintings on the walls that I was positive were scenes of Paris and the South of France. And on the large oak coffee table was a crystal vase filled with fresh deep purple asters and orange mums. The entire room gave off a warm and cozy ambiance.
“What a nice room,” I said, following Worth to another hallway.