Chapter 28
The loss of her job had swung her first into a nervous frenzy, then into a strange calm. At least her life was not like it had been for three years running. Exactly the same thing every day, every night, every weekend. The trip to Scotland had been the catalyst that began the change in her present life. She’d been thrown into the situation, wasted her vacation, which she now knew was a gift she couldn’t have possibly planned, and finally realized that indeed things had worked out well enough—at least for the present time.
See, things are not that bad.
An hour later and fifty miles behind her, the sun came out from behind the dark clouds. Rolling down the windows, she let the rain blow off the vehicle, the moistness spraying her face and frizzing her hair.
Safely parked in Cecelia’s lot space, she drug the heavy suitcase to the elevator, which brought her to the twelfth floor. Setting down her case, she fished in the secret compartment of her purse and found the key. Needing to use the bathroom, she quickly put the key in the lock. Nothing. She twisted and tried again. It would not open.
“Now what?”
A door opened down the hall, and she swung around. A man’s head popped out.
“Thought I heard something.” He came out the door, a long-handled duster in his hand. “Cece changed the locks. You Ed?”
“Yes.” Her face turned pink. More than anything she needed to use the bathroom.
“Come in down here if you don’t mind. I’m in the back forty.” He swung his arm for her to follow.
She hurried behind him, suitcase bumping behind her.
“Sorry, I should have gotten that for you,” he said and dropped the duster and handed her the bag. “Where would you like it?”
“Anywhere’s fine.” She shot past him.
“Spencer Hallman’s the name,” he called out.
“Hi Spencer, back in a minute.” She slammed the door.
It had taken extra time to arrive because of the weather. Too long.
Sheepishly, she made her way toward the sound of foot- steps in her sister’s bedroom.
“I’m sorry. Long drive.”
“No problem. Spencer Hallman’s the name,” he said again and pulled off rubber gloves, sticking out his hand. “Cecelia’s housemaid—houseman, if you want to be proper.”
“I thought you were on vacation.” She caught his eye. “Cece said you were going to be out of town.”
“Change of plans.”
His smile was full-faced. Edwina liked him immediately. He was probably thirty-something.
“So what brings you here?” she asked. “I mean to clean for Cecelia?”
“Ah, a poor college man with a degree and a dump load of tuition to pay back.”
“Sounds familiar.” She picked up the glove he’d dropped without noticing.
“Thanks.”
“I’m Edwina Blair, Cecelia’s sister. Stepsister,” she corrected before she recognized the look of surprise that such a beauty and such a plain Jane could possibly be related. She hated the fact that she felt compelled to explain.
“Oh, the sister with the degree and no job.”
“How’d you know?” Edwina planted her hands on her hip bones.
Spencer shrugged. “Cecelia talks. You should know that.”
“I do,” Edwina admitted. “But you should also know she’s livid.”
“Livid? What did I do?”
“It’s not what you did, it’s what they did to you.” He pointed at her, laughing.
“Me?”
“Of course. Cecelia’s a fighter. When she sees a wrong done, she loves a good battle and the thrill of victory. Believe me, she’d like to come to that town of yours and fight city hall with her bare hands.”
“She’d win too.” Edwina smiled lightly. “I’m starved. Think I’ll get out of your way and get something to eat. It’s almost two o’clock.”
“Hold on. I just cleaned the kitchen. It’s perfect, just like Cecelia likes it. You’d better let me handle messing it up again.”
“Oh, well... I’ll just go out. There’s a pizza place not far.”
“No need. We can steal a sandwich. I made a bucket of chicken salad for the luncheon. Besides, I could use a break myself.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Sure enough to know I’m starving. Least she could do is share a couple of sandwiches.”
Edwina watched while he pulled off his work gloves, washed his hands in Cecelia’s elegant pink and crème bath- room, then led the way to the kitchen.
Edwina noticed his slender build, quick step, and blond hair pulled into a ponytail at the back of his head. Much the way she wore hers.
“You like your bread toasted or plain? White or wheat?”
“Wheat and toasted.”
“Good, me too. We’ll get along just fine,” he said, reaching inside the refrigerator.
“So, you have a degree. What did you study?”
“I’m a chef. A work in progress,” he said and shrugged. “Nevertheless, I’m a food connoisseur. Studying under Francois Maxwell—the best.”
“The best,” she agreed. “Compliments via Cecelia?”
“Of course. She knows everybody, and can sweet-talk any chosen subject to do her bidding. Including me.”
“You know my sister well.” Edwina sat on the chair he pulled out.
“I’ll muss, you discuss.”
“Discuss what?” She couldn’t help but smile. She certainly had nothing to tell. Her life was too predictable.
“Anything your heart desires. I like to converse when I’m preparing.”
“Well... where did you get your hallowed degree?”
“The Cooking and Hospitality Institute here in Chicago.”
“Ah, the best.”
“Always the best. My parents would never settle for anything less than the best. I’m the only son out of five siblings. They’ve got me pegged for their major financial provider.”
“Oh boy. I pity you.”
“You pity me! I pity myself. I am expected to have my own restaurant and a name as big or bigger than Emeril or Wolfgang Puck, whichever is greater.”
“Poor thing.” She felt humor rising up from somewhere inside.
“You got that right. All my sisters are waiting for me to land the big one, so my parents tell me. College tuition, you know.”
“And you must perform exquisitely.”
Spencer looked up from the toast he was spreading with a thin coat of butter as though it were a work of art. “Right again.”
His face was handsome. And he worked out. She could see the muscles beneath his shirt. Bright blue eyes caught her blue ones for a second. They’d connected. Her heart did a flip-flop. Where had that come from?
“So... what’s your favorite meal to fix?” She couldn’t let the dead silence keep filling the room.
“Ah, now that’s a toss-up. First choice is shrimp cream sauce over linguini. Second choice is pizza, but I never, ever say that on my résumé.”
“So now I know a secret about you?” She thought that sounded pretty lame.
“Indeed you do. Now, here’s your sandwich, arranged on a simple plate, no garnish—which is just killing me. No pickle, no chips. And for that I sincerely apologize.” He bowed low.
Edwina laughed out loud. “Sit down and eat. I’m not fussy. Besides, I could use a few less pounds.”
“You look fine. People are too skinny today. We French- trained chefs like to see our customers with a bit of flesh. We know they’ll be back for more, and they’re usually less fussy when it comes to calories.”
“True.” She picked up her sandwich and took a bite.
“There, see, that’s what I like. Someone who likes to eat.”
“Oh boy, I’m in big trouble if you stick around here long.” Edwina let down her guard.
“Good. You can be my guinea pig.”
“Pig being the key word?” She smiled and knew instantly she had erred.
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He looked embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. I was joking. I know I’m... well, not exactly skinny.”
“You should never erect walls like that around yourself.”
Edwina looked away for a moment so he could not espy her own embarrassment. They were at an impasse if she couldn’t think of something to say... but what could she possibly say?
“You’re right.” Her voice was low.
He seemed to relax, so she empowered her mind to move on. “What did you do to Cecelia’s chicken salad? Something is different, and I like it. A lot.”
“Well, there is a little secret I use . . .”
“Oh, but don’t tell if it’s a secret recipe,” she hurried to say, knowing chefs rarely shared their ingredients unless it was on national television.
“I won’t tell. You’ll have to guess without ever knowing the truth.”
They both laughed and all was well again.
Finished, Spencer shooed her out of the kitchen. He did not tolerate running to and fro cleaning while bumping into another body. “Go unpack. I just finished the Rose Room. You should find it suitable.”
“Rose Room?”
“You didn’t know your sister named each guest room?” He turned from his work.
“No.”
“There are four of them, all color coordinated of course. The Rose Room, the Yellow Room, the Burgundy Room, and the Green Room. Down the hall, second door on the right. It’s one of the nicest.”
“Then won’t we need to save that room for the Gillespies?”
“No, the Crème Room is the guest suite. It is by far the largest and most elegant. The other four are merely the smaller guest rooms.”
“Ah.” Edwina swept away before her lack of manners should be found out.
The bell at the front door rang out like a live-playing band. Cecelia’s twenty-foot ceilings accounted for the perfect acoustics. Edwina hesitated, but knew Spencer would handle the situation. He was accustomed to Cecelia’s way of life—that was apparent. A match for her sister perhaps? But then Spencer seemed too young and free-spirited for her sophisticated entrepreneurial sister. What man could tame her beauty and her drive? Edwina wondered as she lugged her bag. It would be unthinkable to wheel her case along on the thick carpet. Spencer would not approve.
After shutting the door behind her, she slipped off her shoes and concentrated on getting settled in. The room smelled of roses, true to the name and the color. She had not taken time to investigate the entire condominium space when she’d been here before. Everything in the room was rose and cream. Everything. Right down to the switch plate covers. The wallpaper was not quite a print—more like a watercolor canvas. It held a sense of intrigue; its muted colors of roses, creams, and greens the obvious inspiration for the entire room. Edwina leaned close and studied the design, barely visible to the eye. Then she saw the pattern. Roses, vines, and leaves.
Once unpacked, her clothes filled two drawers in the elegant gold and white dresser—the more descriptive word being chiffonier. She had learned that from Cecelia.
After a quick change into whitewashed jeans and an old white cotton shirt, she swept her palm over the wayward strands of her hair and prepared to work.
A tap sounded at her door. “Miss Blair.”
She opened it to Spencer. “There is someone here . . .” He started down the hall, expecting her to follow.
Shrugging, she thought perhaps one of Cecelia’s busi- ness associates had arrived. Her sister would fly in on her new pumps ready to greet her visitors. Edwina smiled. At least she had something to keep her mind occupied for the time being.
She turned the corner and entered the living room, her mouth open to greet . . .
There across the way stood the Gillespies. And Alex Dunnegin.