“Point taken. And this?” He pointed upward to the invisible speaker as the song shifted to a Creedence Clearwater Revival hit. If Rosabel didn’t know any better, she’d say their driver started humming under his breath.
“The Beatles are my childhood. My dad loved this music, and I grew up listening to it.”
“And still continue to torture yourself with it.”
She smiled at his playful hint of hopelessness. “Who said it was torture? This music is where it’s at. Are you a fan of rock and roll?”
“Maybe,” he hedged, not giving a definitive answer.
“Then you owe your allegiance to the Beatles. They’re the instigators of rock. And Elvis.”
“Absolutely not,” Duncan snapped. “We’re not listening to Elvis.”
Rosabel laughed, grateful to realize her motion sickness had abated. The driver slowed, readying for another turn. She chanced a glimpse out her window and caught her breath. They’d left paved roads behind and now journeyed along a single-lane path lined by trees on either side. The occasional cabin came into view before the driver took another rather sharp turn and headed toward what appeared to be a community of its own caliber.
As far as homes went, this area was a gold mine. The houses stuck their noses out at the other cabins she and Duncan had passed. These were upscale log cabins that were more akin to ski lodges than a place any single person—or any single family—should live.
“When you said ‘lake house,’ I was thinking a little cozy log cabin with maybe a cuddle-worthy fireplace and some flannel curtains.”
The driver slowed along the street, and she gaped at the massive, beautiful mansions clustered with a shimmering lake as their backdrop. These homes were enormous and probably hosted every possible extravagance within their walls. Some were constructed of logs, while others were covered with stones. They featured every architectural style anyone could wish for: short porches, sweeping stairs, enormous entryways and glittering windows set off with shutters and stone.
And then there was the landscaping. Each house’s design fit perfectly with the rustic mountainous surroundings. There were gravel gardens, oaks and pines, small shrubs, and personal ponds that were undoubtedly stocked with fish.
“These are huge,” Rosabel said. She imagined every home they passed had sky-high ceilings and over-the-top embellishments. Not to mention the lake’s jaw-dropping view.
“This neighborhood is exclusive,” Duncan agreed. “A billionaire’s mountain cove. Not Victorian, but still …”
“Stunning,” Rosabel amended. “I’ve never seen one house this huge, let alone an entire community of them. People actually live here?”
Duncan returned his attention to his device, but he peered over his tablet just enough to grunt in agreement.
Rosabel nudged his shoulder. “Come on, you haven’t even looked yet.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“But …” Thanks to the paper copies of his personal investments she’d kept on hand, she was privy to more information than she probably should have been. However, she had no recollection of this particular investment, which meant it must have been extremely recent. “But you just bought this place.”
“I saw pictures.”
“A picture isn’t the same as seeing it in person.”
He slammed his tablet down. “Rosie—”
“Don’t start that now. Look out the window.”
The car pulled to a stop, and Rosabel exited like a kid on Christmas, eager to take in as much of this place as she could. She inhaled the crisp mountain air, stunned by the complete layout. The cabin’s roof was just as corrugated as the road to it had been, its gables stacked and angled in alternating but attractive directions, giving the impression of its size.
Stones covered the base level of the log colossus, and exposed logs built up from the wraparound porch served as a skirt around the cabin-mansion’s midsection. Two large wooden garage doors set off by sconces on either side served as a base layer, holding up a balcony above which then led to the impeccable front door. A skipping of pavestone circles created a path, branching from the main sidewalk leading to the steps.
“Look at this place,” she said, her breath momentarily stolen by the inspiring sight.
“Now I bet you’re glad you came.” Duncan stood beside her. Attention free from technology, he admired the gigantic home along with her.
“That remains to be seen.” Her guard was back up. Rosabel wasn’t sure what bothered her, but she suspected her irritation had something to do with his entitled attitude. Here Duncan had this incredible home, and he wielded the edifice like a badge, like something to lord over others and prove his manhood or something. And he’d criticized the 1800s for their version of social inequality.
Rosabel refused to let that attitude hold any kind of sway, and she took her admiring gaze away from the beauty around her. Darn him for ruining what could have been an amazing moment otherwise. She retrieved her bag from the driver. He was in his mid-fifties, she would guess, with hair graying at this temples and kindness in his eyes. “Clive, thank you for the music and for such astute navigation on such snaky roads.”
He chuckled. “Thank you for giving me an excuse to listen to the Fab Four.”
Rosabel beamed at him and then led the way up the wooden stairs to the second level where the main door lay. Not far behind, Duncan skipped up, unlocked the door, and let her in.
Rosabel lingered in the entryway and allowed her gaze to roam, from the vaulted, towering ceiling with rich, exposed wood beams marking every new angle, to the granite adorning the counters and the seat of the hearth before a thirty-foot-high brick chimney above the pleasant fireplace. Cozy couches left the living area perfectly staged. A blanket strung across the back of the cushy armchair invited Rosabel to curl on its cushions with a good book and stay for a while.
She shouldn’t be so surprised. Though she hadn’t been the one to hire the decorating service and oversee the setup, with Duncan’s high taste he would make sure it was staged to the max.
Hands on his hips, Duncan gave the room his inspection. He wasn’t frowning, so that said something. The least he could do was look happy. “Well, well, well. Not bad, Miss Smith. Not bad at all. Want to pick your room?”
Rosabel stared at him. “Seriously?”
“Sure,” he said. “Take a look and pick the one you want. I’ll go find mine.” Leaving his bag on the entryway tile, he sauntered toward what Rosabel suspected to be the kitchen hidden behind a bearing wall decorated with a large picture of a beautiful, scenic landscape. Rather than follow him, she did as he suggested and made her way toward the stairway’s thickset wooden railing.
Her feet sank onto soft carpet that didn’t quite reach each stair’s edges. She ran her hand along the smooth wood, enjoying the view of the living area from bird’s eye rather than straight on. With its neutral paint on the walls, the gray carpet, the quality leather couches, and tasteful floral arrangements situated at just the right positions, everything was honed. She reached the landing, stopping at each room and enjoying the comfortable sights, but the moment she reached the last room on the left, her breath caught.
Through the window opposite the bed, the sun was a spotlight on Beaver Lake, which was fringed with trees of every height. Shades of green offset the crystal-blue water. Other substantial homes were visible across the lake’s breadth, marked with docks and boat launches.
“This is the one,” she said to no one but herself, breaking deeper into the room and placing her bag on the bed’s gray comforter as though staking her claim.
A raised voice caught her attention below, wafting down the hall and breaking through her reverie. She closed her eyes. “That’s right. I nearly forgot who I came here with.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Duncan’s voice carried. “There’s no way I can make the trip back there by tomorrow. We just got here—the drive took an hour just to get to the lake house.” Duncan paused, list
ening to whoever was on the other end. “I told you I’d dive in that at price, but if you can’t make your end, then I’m not going to take the risk.” Another pause. “You know what? I’m off duty now. This is my vacation. I can’t believe you can’t make this work.”
Duncan ended the call before starting another one. His tone changed infinitely in an instant. “Mother. Hi, yes, we made it. Today?” He paused. “Rosabel needs some time to settle in. I—okay. If you think it’s best.”
Rosabel was taken aback. She half expected him to snap at her as well, but this was his mom, and not only that, but he’d added Rosabel into his concerns. Something told her he wasn’t using her as a cop-out—he’d sounded genuine. Probably trying to keep his word about not having to see his family until his grandma’s party.
Confusion knotted her stomach. Something bothered him, but she couldn’t put her finger on the problem. The possibilities rattled off inside her head, but none quite fit. A vacation? A mountain retreat? In all the time she’d worked for him, he hadn’t even taken weekends off. She wondered what made him do so now. He could have just come for the party, stayed in a hotel, and then flown back to Vermont when this was over.
Why had he come all the way here? The reason had to be a big deal, considering the way he’d refused to conduct business on the phone minutes before. He’d also mentioned something about his grandmother not speaking to him. She wondered what had happened between them to put him on edge.
Rosabel tiptoed back down the stairs to where he stood beside one of the leather couches. Phone lowered, he stared at the floor as if lost in thought.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Looks like we’re expected at my parents’ place.”
“We? As in both of us?”
“Yes, you’re included in the invitation. Might as well get it over with.”
“Get what over with?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he was halfway to the door, texting someone as he went. She assumed the recipient was Clive, who must have gone to his room as well.
Rosabel was tempted to dig in her heels, but in spite of herself, pity seeped through the cracks in her armor, along with a slight suspicion. Here they were in this colossal house. If it wasn’t for her, he’d be completely alone, facing his family the same way.
Was Duncan lonely? Was that what made him snap like a turtle at everyone who tried getting close to him?
She debated asking, but he wasn’t likely to give her a straight answer. They’d argued enough in the past two days. Instead, she rushed upstairs for her phone, shot Sarah a quick text to check in on Dad, and dashed out to join Duncan in the car.
She couldn’t figure out what made him so reticent to see his family, but whatever the cause, she wasn’t eager to meet them either.
7
The mountain roads were going to kill her. There was nothing more to it. Rosabel attempted to keep her attention on the solid white line, and having a singular focus helped to abate her queasiness somewhat. She attempted to instigate another riveting conversation by asking Duncan what music he liked, but he only grunted.
They passed a few hotels when an old-fashioned trolley pulled into the parking lot of some kind of depot. A trolley? She was in love with this place already.
One home in particular caused Rosabel to gasp. She scooted closer to the window for a better look. “That house!” she exclaimed. Her eyes couldn’t seem to take in enough of its features. It was a Queen Anne Victorian, buttery yellow, with crinkle-cut siding, a tower situated atop its circular porch, and gables made of burgundy. The elaborate dream home was encircled by a low wrought-iron fence above a stone retaining wall.
Wonder and admiration brimmed within Rosabel. A keen desire to tour the interior taunted her. Even as they passed, she rotated in her seat, not wanting to let the structure out of her sight. Too soon, it was behind them.
“Oh my goodness,” she said, patting Duncan’s knee repeatedly. “Did you see that house? I’ve seen places like that in pictures, but in person? Ohhhh my goodness, it’s stunning.”
Duncan grunted again, pushing her hand away from his leg.
“Are you kidding me? Turn around, Clive! We have to go back.”
Clive chuckled from the driver’s seat, but Duncan signaled him on. “My family is expecting us.”
Rosabel sank against her seat in shock. “I can’t believe you’re this impartial. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me there was a house like that on the way to your parents’, after I gushed over houses just like that on the way here.”
“That’s not the only one around here,” Duncan said. “Just wait until we go downtown.”
Excitement speared through her. More? Like that one? “Let’s go,” she exclaimed. “Right now!” She was probably overdoing it, especially since this was Duncan she was trying to connect with, but still. That house. She couldn’t get over it.
Clive drove through the rest of the small town, turning at a fork in the road marked by a series of electric poles providing power to nearby buildings, and a large sign announcing Stuart’s Grocery.
A few more miles, and they pulled into a lengthy drive hidden from the road by its own personal forest. At the end of the drive lay a two-level Colonial home, dated but in excellent condition. Flower boxes spilling with begonias and popcorn-like hydrangeas lined the cobblestone sidewalk’s edges.
“This place is stunning too. No one builds houses like this anymore,” she added, thinking of the contrast between these historical structures and the modern mansions she’d seen back at his mountain cove. Perhaps their differences related to the conclusion she and Duncan had come to during their drive earlier. Each style, each time period, had its own charms and setbacks. She decided to appreciate the beauty in both worlds.
“This is where I grew up,” Duncan said.
Rosabel’s mouth dropped. It was doing that a lot lately. “This house? I never would have thought you grew up in a place like this. I mean, a mansion, yes, but in a little adorable, historic place like this?” She swept her gaze toward the upper balcony, supported by several statuesque columns. She pictured flags draped from those battlements during an earlier time period. This was Civil War territory, after all.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. You just don’t seem like the kind of guy …” He had let her ramble on about her interests and hadn’t said a word about his own. Realization opened a new file within her mind. She’d been nothing more than acquainted with Duncan. How much did she really know about him?
His jaw ticked. He didn’t acknowledge her before treading forward to the front door. When he lifted his fist to knock, she noticed his other hand clenched at his side.
Rosabel had watched him take on CEO tycoons from company after company, steering them—and in some cases bullying them—toward or away from certain investments. He’d never confronted them with hands fisted so tightly at his sides his veins bulged.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said too quickly.
She opened her mouth to press the issue when the door swung open. The thin woman standing there in a striped blouse and knee-length skirt and heels showed only a small spark of recognition. If anything, her already downturned mouth frowned a little deeper. Rosabel suspected her age lines were due more to stress and dissatisfaction than smiling. Though her complexion could make Audrey Hepburn jealous—if Audrey was the type—care, stress, and frustration dragged down the corners of this woman’s eyes and weighed on her shoulders.
“Hello, Mother.”
“You made it,” Mrs. Hawthorne said, feigning a smile. Rosabel waited for her to pull her son into her arms, or to express interest in his travels, or even say how glad she was to have him home again. She said none of these but stepped back and gestured for the two of them to come inside.
Rosabel followed Duncan’s example and removed her shoes on the marble entryway. To the left, the entrance lowered a single step into the
living room. The carpets were greener than envy but clearly well cared for, shimmery in that just-shampooed kind of way. Floral curtains splashed a contrast to the carpet along the extravagant windows. A tiny clock on the marble mantel above the fireplace gave off little pinging noises every time the second hand moved.
Mrs. Hawthorne—Rosabel assumed that was who’d answered the door, since the woman had yet to say a word—strutted to settle herself onto the left side of a floral love seat situated at the room’s far end. A man occupied a high-backed velvet chair in the opposite corner. He kept his attention plastered to his phone.
Rosabel waited with her heart in her mouth. Duncan remained near the baby grand piano in the room’s left-hand corner. Tension didn’t ripple so much as seethe as every eye rested on him.
Why didn’t Duncan say anything? Were these his parents?
Why didn’t they say anything?
She got the impression that this was the family dynamic Duncan had grown up with. Was this normal to him? She couldn’t fathom being treated this way by her family. No greeting. No pleasure in each other’s company. No warmth.
Rosabel thought back to her earlier suspicions that Duncan was the way he was because of his family. She couldn’t remember a time she’d wished she was more wrong.
Pity swelled within Rosabel as she remembered her mother’s gentle, kind countenance and the way she pulled Rosabel into a hug every time she came home from school—daily. If Rosabel was correct, these people hadn’t seen their son in years! What happened between them?
Any minute now, his mom would crack her stony expression, call him out for believing the joke, cross the room and wrap him in her arms.
Duncan chiseled into the silence, letting the pieces tinkle where they may. “Mother. Dad. How are you?”
Mr. Hawthorne, Duncan’s father, lowered his phone, as if barely noticing there were two extra people in the room. Expression lifting, he smiled and rose from his chair. Apparently, someone in this family had some decency.
Rosabel And The Billionaire Beast (Billionaire Bachelor Mountain Cove Book 6) Page 5
