“Yes, I did…. I apologize. I should’ve written a thank-you note.”
She did seem appropriately contrite. Will had paid a premium for that basket. This wasn’t some run-of-the-mill wine-and-cheese ensemble, either. Everything had been imported from France.
“No problem. I just wanted to be sure you got it,” he said nonchalantly.
“When did you bring it by?” she asked.
“Christmas Day,” he said.
“Oh, I hope you weren’t alone on Christmas Day.”
He looked away. “I was, but it wasn’t any big deal. I had a couple of invitations, but…I didn’t feel well.” He’d rather not admit he hadn’t accepted those invitations—from Olivia and his niece, Justine—because he’d thought he could spend the day with Shirley. He’d made the mistake of assuming she’d be home and alone, the same way he’d been. He knew her kids would be there, but kids that age didn’t enjoy hanging around with their mothers. As a result of his mistaken assumption, he’d ended up going to Olivia’s for dinner and then watching White Christmas on TV in his apartment for what had to be the twentieth time.
“I apologize for not sending you that thank-you note,” she told him again.
“It doesn’t matter. I only wanted to make sure you found the gift.” He brightened. “But…” he said in a teasing voice “…you could make it up to me.” He’d keep it light, easy, relaxed.
“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning instantly. “How?”
“I know you’re a widow.”
She took a small step in retreat, as though the subject wasn’t one she intended to discuss with him. That was fine; Will had no desire to draw her dead husband into the conversation. He just wanted to establish her avail-ability—and his.
“As I mentioned earlier, I’m on my own, too. I thought we could get together one evening,” he said, “or maybe we could meet one afternoon.”
Shirley took another small step away from him. Now that she had her check, she seemed eager to leave.
“Nothing formal, you understand,” Will clarified. “Lunch or coffee, that sort of thing.”
She gave him a slight smile. “I’m not sure I’m ready to date.”
“This wouldn’t be a date,” he said. “This would be a chat over coffee, a getting-to-know-you session, that’s all. I’d love to hear more of your ideas for the gallery,” he added, to remind her of the conversation they’d already had back in the fall. “I’m free now, if you are. I hear the Pot Belly Deli has an excellent selection of coffees and teas.”
“You mean now? As in right now?”
“If it’s convenient. We can walk down the hill. It’s not far.” At least she hadn’t immediately turned him down—that was encouraging.
“Perhaps another time,” she said after a long moment.
“Sure, whenever.” He shrugged off her rejection.
“I’ll call you,” she said next, as if to suggest she’d prefer it if he didn’t call her.
Okay, on to plan B. “I had some news regarding Shaw,” he told her, hoping to give her extra incentive to accept his invitation.
“Really.”
Her interest was piqued, he could see. That was good. He hated to resort to manipulation but she wasn’t leaving him a lot of options. In the past, he’d rarely had to be so blatant.
“I had another talk with the friend who looked at Shaw’s work.” Will didn’t offer any more information than that. Nor was he disposed to do so. If she wanted an update, she’d have to meet him for coffee.
With the check in her hand, she waited for an awkward minute or two, and when the information regarding Shaw wasn’t forthcoming, she made her excuses.
“I’ll see you to the door,” Will said, walking beside her.
“You don’t need to do that.”
He was tempted to extend the conversation, delay her parting. He could bring up any number of topics she’d find relevant or interesting. However, he said nothing.
“Thank you again,” she murmured as she stepped into the darkening afternoon.
“You’re welcome.” Will closed the door and locked it behind her, knowing she’d hear the turn of the lock. That was intentional. He didn’t want her to think he was begging or that he was desperate for her company. And yet, it was increasingly how he felt. She intrigued and attracted him and he felt intuitively that they could be good for each other. And, he had to acknowledge with a hint of shame, he wasn’t immune to the thrill of the chase.
Briefly he wondered if something was holding Shirley back—some gossip she’d heard about him. He frowned. He didn’t think Grace Harding had mentioned their Internet relationship. His sister wouldn’t have, either. No, that couldn’t be it.
What had happened with Grace was regrettable. Little did Will know then that within a few years he’d be returning to live in Cedar Cove. That whole situation, which had begun as a mild flirtation via the Internet, had become extremely unpleasant, and he was happy to put it behind him. He’d been genuinely fond of Grace, still was. Her husband was a nice guy—and not someone he wanted to cross. He was glad her marriage had worked out. Besides, he didn’t believe in fouling his own nest, so to speak.
Will turned off the gallery showroom lights and went upstairs to his small apartment. He’d made the transition from his previous apartment to the space above the gallery because he’d found someone to sublet the place he’d first rented. Mack, the son of P.I. Roy McAfee down the street, had recently joined the Cedar Cove fire department, so the timing was perfect.
His residence in the gallery still needed plenty of work, but it was adequate for now. Sighing, he decided to relax with a glass of wine. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting in front of the television when the phone rang, jolting him out of his stupor.
Caller ID informed him it was Shirley Bliss.
With a knowing smile, he muted the volume on the TV and reached for the receiver. “Hello, Shirley.”
“Mr. Jefferson.”
“Please call me Will.”
“All right, Will… Is that invitation for coffee still open?”
“Sure.” He tried not to reveal how pleased he was to hear from her.
“Great.” She sounded anxious to see him now.
“When would you like to meet?” He set his wineglass on the side table and leaned back in his recliner.
“Could we make it this evening, like you suggested?”
“Perfect,” he said. “It’s a bit late now. Can I convince you to dine with me?”
“No.” Her response was clipped. “Not tonight…. As I said, I have a previous engagement.”
“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that. Coffee it is, then.”
“Could we meet at Mocha Mama’s?”
“Of course.” He didn’t particularly care where they went. He hoped to put her at ease, and if everything went as he wished, this “previous engagement” would disappear as the evening progressed.
“Shall we say in fifteen minutes?” Shirley asked.
“I can manage that.” Will lowered his feet from the ottoman.
“Would it be okay if I brought my daughter along?”
That definitely wasn’t part of his game plan. “Why…sure.”
“Shaw’s at work. When I mentioned to Tanni that you had some information for Shaw, she called him and he’d like to join us, too.”
“But if he’s working…”
“He is,” Shirley elaborated. “At Mocha Mama’s. We’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” she said cheerfully.
“Okay,” he responded. “I’ll be there.” But she’d already hung up.
Seven
Rachel Peyton lightly sprayed Grace Harding’s hair and turned the stylist’s chair around so she could see the full effect in the mirror. Grace held up the small hand mirror, then shook her head and watched as her hair swung forward.
She’d told Rachel she’d been looking for a new style, something short, sassy and easy to care for. “I like it,” Grace said, smiling.
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It was always a relief to have a customer confirm her own feelings. “This is shorter than I’ve ever seen you wear your hair.” Initially she’d had her doubts that such a breezy style would suit Grace, the town’s head librarian, but she’d been wrong.
“Seeing that Olivia has short hair now, it seems only fitting that I do, too. We’ve always been best friends.” Grace laughed. “Actually, she’s completely bald. I love her, but I’m not willing to go that far.”
“Her hair will grow back,” Rachel said, “but it might be a different color or texture.” Olivia had come in earlier that week and had what remained of her hair shaved off. She’d started her regimen of chemotherapy, and after the second session her hair had fallen out in clumps. Rachel had cut it quite short before the chemo, so the change wasn’t as great as it might have been.
“The way I see it,” Grace continued, “Olivia and I can let our hair grow back together—unless I like this style so much I don’t want to change.”
Rachel unsnapped the cape and removed it.
“I heard you and Bruce Peyton got married,” Grace said as she stood. “Right around Christmas, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. We were crazy to have our wedding at that time of year but we didn’t want to wait.”
“What about a honeymoon?”
“We haven’t been able to plan it yet. We’ll take one later, probably around Valentine’s Day.” Which was when their wedding was originally scheduled to take place. “It’s just that with Bruce’s work schedule, Jolene’s schedule and mine, it’s hard to find a time that fits everyone.”
Grace’s smile was warm. “Cliff and I ran into that problem, too. In the end we simply eloped, although I wouldn’t recommend it.” She shook her head. “Unfortunately we upset a lot of people, but afterward we had a huge party and everything worked out.”
“Apparently we’ve done the same thing,” Rachel told her. The girls at the shop had felt hurt about being excluded. Everything had been so rushed. In retrospect, perhaps they should’ve waited until February, after all. But circumstances had prohibited that, since Rachel had given up her rental house, which had a new tenant. Bruce had been eager to marry her, and she’d felt the same way. They’d gone ahead despite her reservations, but even now Rachel wondered if they’d made the right decision.
“These things tend to take care of themselves,” Grace said. “Cliff and I are happy and I can see you are, too, if the new-bride glow is anything to go by.”
“We are.”
“That’s wonderful.” Grace reached for her purse and paid for her haircut at the front counter. She also made another appointment for early March, about six weeks away.
With a small broom, Rachel swept up the brown curls that circled the styling chair. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say she was happy. She was, gleefully so, but she also felt sexually frustrated. Bruce did, too, and it was fast putting a strain on their relationship.
What Rachel hadn’t expected, or Bruce, either, was Jolene’s reaction to their marriage. Jolene, at thirteen, felt threatened by the upheaval in her life.
Bruce’s daughter had been Rachel’s special friend for years. They’d started meeting after Stephanie Peyton’s tragic death in a car accident. Jolene had only been five at the time. She’d badly needed a woman in her life and had latched on to Rachel when she’d given the little girl a haircut.
Rachel’s own mother had died when she was young and she’d been raised by an unmarried aunt. Because she understood what it was like to be a motherless child, Rachel had voluntarily stepped in. The two of them had quickly bonded.
Jolene had often played the role of matchmaker between Rachel and Bruce. But obviously she’d never realized what would happen once Bruce and Rachel fell in love….
Rachel’s marriage to Jolene’s father had changed the dynamic within the family. Jolene was too immature and vulnerable to accept that. She feared being excluded or losing her place in Bruce’s life. The girl had been demanding and unreasonable ever since the wedding.
Rachel and Bruce rarely had a moment alone. Making love had become a challenge. Jolene had always been a light sleeper and the slightest noise woke her. Her timing was impeccable; three times in the past week alone, Jolene had inadvertently interrupted their prologue to lovemaking. Or was it inadvertent? At any rate when she went back to bed, Bruce was either asleep or so irritated that the opportunity had been ruined.
“Your next appointment just called and canceled,” Joan, who handled the reception desk, told her.
“Wasn’t that the color job?”
Joan checked the schedule. “Yup.”
That was two free hours. Two whole unexpected hours. Rachel’s heart raced as she glanced at her watch. “I don’t have any other appointments this afternoon, right?”
Joan checked again. “Not that I can see.”
An idea was taking shape. “Terrific. Thanks.” She grabbed her purse, pulled out her cell phone and punched speed dial to connect with Bruce.
He answered on the second ring. “Bruce speaking.”
“What are you doing?” she asked excitedly.
“Working, what do you think?” Bruce ran a small independent computer-support business, with a couple of employees.
“Can you meet me at the house?”
“I suppose…Any special reason you want me home?”
Rachel giggled, and no doubt sounded like a schoolgirl. “Oh, yes, there’s a very special reason. My last appointment canceled and Jolene’s got basketball tryouts after school.”
Bruce caught on right away. “You mean we would be alone?”
“That’s what I figured.” She giggled again.
“Give me ten minutes.”
“You got it.” Rachel closed the phone and held it against her heart, grinning wildly. She saw Joan watching her, eyebrows raised.
“I take it you don’t want me to schedule anything for the rest of the day?”
“Please.” Rachel hurried into the back room where she threw on her coat. She was a woman with a mission.
She got home first and tore into the bedroom, where she closed the drapes, then pulled off her clothes and hopped into the shower. Her best friend, Teri Polgar, had bought her a sheer negligee as a wedding gift, which Rachel had yet to wear. She was finally going to initiate it.
The front door opened and Bruce dashed inside. “Rachel?”
“In here,” she called back, hoping she sounded sultry and sexy. She climbed onto the bed and lay on her side, facing him, the provocative black negligee revealing far more than it concealed. Her chin was propped on one hand.
Bruce came into the room and stopped dead in his tracks.
“Looking for someone?” Rachel purred.
He swallowed visibly. It was a moment before he was able to move or speak. “I need a shower,” he croaked.
Rachel rolled onto her back. “Hurry.”
“Oh, I’ll try.” He started throwing off his clothes as he trotted toward the bathroom. His shirt fell onto the carpet next to the bed. It was a testament to the quality of the garment that the buttons hadn’t been ripped off in his haste. His shoes were next; one was kicked under the bed and the other bounced against the wall and into the bathroom.
“We have all afternoon, you realize,” she said. “Shall I pour us a glass of champagne?”
The shower door opened. “Champagne?”
“Another gift from Teri and Bobby.”
“Sure…” His gaze was riveted on her. “You are so beautiful.”
“That’s how you make me feel,” she whispered.
While Bruce showered, Rachel went into the kitchen. Although it was an odd contrast with the negligee, she wore her old terry-cloth robe, not wanting to risk being seen through the windows. She opened the refrigerator and sorted through the milk and yogurt and eggs to the farthest reaches of the bottom shelf, where she’d stored the champagne. Moët et Chandon, something she’d never expected to taste.
By the time she hea
rd Bruce, the flutes were out and ready. She’d lit several scented candles, too. The mood was set except for the music. She found an appropriate CD and put it on.
A minute or two later, Bruce met her in the kitchen. He was barefoot and naked with a towel around his waist. His dark hair fell in wet tendrils, dripping moisture onto his neck and shoulders. As far as Rachel was concerned, he’d never looked sexier.
Rachel turned to greet him with a shy smile. She held the champagne bottle in her hand and removed the wire top. “Someone once told me that the correct way to open champagne is to twist the bottle and not the cork. When properly opened, it should sound like a contented woman.”
Bruce pretended to leer. “I’m more than eager to hear the sound of a contented woman.”
“The champagne or me?” she asked.
He grinned. “Both.”
Rachel attempted to follow the opening directions for champagne, and the cork popped much more loudly than she’d expected.
“You can be as noisy as you want, too,” her husband joked, taking the bottle out of her hands. He filled both flutes and gave her one. Clutching his own, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. Their lips clung as the kiss deepened. Although only their mouths touched, an overwhelming physical response rippled through her.
Bruce groaned and put down his champagne. “Maybe we could drink this later?” he asked, hardly sounding like himself.
“What do you have in mind?” she asked as he took the flute from her and set it on the kitchen counter.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit warm in here?”
“Hmm. I know what you mean.”
“You have too many clothes on.”
Rachel smiled. “You could be right.” She glanced out the kitchen window, saw no one, then peeled off her robe.
Bruce led her down the narrow hallway to the master bedroom, then lifted her into his arms.
“Bruce, I’m too heavy,” she protested but not too strenuously.
“Well…it’s not far from here to the bed.” He shoved the door with his foot, closing it partway.
Looping her arms around his neck, Rachel nibbled at his earlobe and felt his body shiver with excitement. She was excited, too. The freedom to make love without fear of waking or disturbing Jolene was heaven.