by Mara Purl
Zack couldn’t read her expression. “Miranda I just meant that you obviously made quite an impression on him. He doesn’t seem so easily impressed.” He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “You’re a beautiful woman. Why shouldn’t he be impressed?”
Miranda brought her gaze up to his, the candle bouncing light from her silky green and igniting tiny emeralds in her eyes. The tension seemed to vanish, the touch of their hands sparking a connection.
They were interrupted again, this time by the arrival of the salads and entrées. Miranda raised an eyebrow as she said, “I can’t decide whether to be flattered or offended.”
“Because I ordered for you? Well, why don’t you decide after you taste the food?”
“That’s a neat way off the hook.”
“Pun intended?”
Miranda looked down at her salad of arugula and Mandarin orange, then at the perfectly sautéed seafood. Taking his suggestion, she lifted a morsel of tender fish to her mouth. “Mmm, superb.” Between bites she asked, “When did you have time to make all these arrangements about the menu? And how did you find the Tavern?” There was mischief in her eyes and Zack smiled.
“The manager at the Belhaven gave me some brochures. But I like to do my homework, so I wanted to come out and see the place first.”
She tried a bite of winter squash, apparently approving, then asked, “What else have you found out about my little town?”
Zack looked into her eyes. “That it seems to be full of unexpected treasures.”
Miranda Jones turned away from the intensity of Zack’s gaze and glanced around the restaurant. All the tables held small flickering lights—clear vials of oil supporting bright flames. Next to each, stood charming decorations—miniature trees draped with tiny pumpkins hanging from their vines.
Meanwhile, servings of pasta seemed to spin by her head as a busy waitress expertly wielded multiple plates balanced on her arms. Just then, their waiter appeared as if by a prearranged cue with a bottle of white wine, which he uncorked, pouring the first sip into Zack’s glass. Zack took his time eyeing the color, inhaling the fragrance, swilling the mouthful. Pronouncing it excellent, he signaled the waiter to pour.
“Well, how about a toast?” Zack offered. “To … the Cove.”
Miranda touched the stem of her wineglass and hesitated.
“Something wrong?” Zack asked.
“No … I, well, I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Oh … I’m sorry. I just assumed.” Zack looked awkwardly at his glass and put it down.
“Oh, but please,” she protested, “I don’t mind if other people do!”
Zack persisted. “Have a sip at least.”
If I don’t relent, he’ll probably keep pestering me. “All right. One sip.”
Clinking his glass against hers, he toasted, “To the most gracious woman in Milford-Haven.” He took a swallow. “Mmm. Excellent. Gee, I’d love to hear about this, why you don’t drink.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you some time.”
An awkward silence descended. After another bite of food, Zack asked, “Did you grow up around here?”
“Yes … and no. Northern California. Near San Francisco.”
“A native Californian! Like me.”
“Santa Barbara has always been home for you?” she asked.
“All my life. So you gave up the big city for an artists’ colony. Was that the draw?”
“Your turn for a pun.”
“Touché. Really, though. Was that it?”
Miranda stared out the window at the lights trailing away down the coastline. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s the light.” She brought her gaze back to him. “Light has so much to do with the visual identity of a place. In Hawaii it’s. … Or like cities … ever been to Paris?”
He nodded.
“Okay, think of Paris. Then think of New York. They have completely different light, don’t you think?”
“Light?” Zack’s expression was bemused, tolerant. “Paris?”
He’s looking at me like I’m crazy. “Never mind. It’s just … painter stuff.” She changed the subject. “Speaking of cities, when did you first start coming to Milford-Haven?”
Zack shook his head as though to keep up. “Just the other day.”
“But Santa Barbara’s so close … I can’t believe you haven’t been up here before. Your schedule must keep you very busy.”
“Yeah, I’m working all the time.”
“Doing what?”
“Now wait a minute. We were talking about lighting. Only an artist would even think of it. What do you mean exactly?” Zack took another mouthful of his dinner.
Miranda shifted in her seat. “I can paint my ideas much better than I can explain them. Let’s see. Imagine a city on a bright, sunny day. Whenever there’s bright sun, there are also shadows, so what you really see is a light/dark cityscape—buildings throw dark gray shadows across one another; sidewalks bounce light back so brightly they seem almost white.”
“High contrast.” Zack took another swallow of his wine.
‘Yes, almost like a black and white photograph with thousands of shadings of gray.” Miranda could hear her own voice grow more animated as she visualized what she described. “Now imagine that same city on an overcast day.”
“Sounds monochromatic.”
“No! Not at all! The more subtle lighting enables you to see the true colors. A park bench that might’ve seemed dark gray turns out really to be dark green. The water in a pond no longer looks black, it picks up the blue and green of sky and algae. The yellow of a table-umbrella is so bright it looks like a little spot of sunshine. Diffused lighting intensifies all the colors, you see? Makes them pop out, instead of getting diluted by so many lumens from the sun.”
Zack started to smile.
“What?” She smiled back. “I’m going on, aren’t I?”
“Your face … I think it might be emitting lumens too.” He chuckled. “Really, I think it’s great! But you might want to eat your dinner.”
“Oh!” She grinned and took a bite.
“It’s a gift, you know.”
“What is?” she asked.
“To know what you love. To do what you love.”
She shrugged. “But … what else is there?”
Zack Calvin stood when Miranda excused herself to visit the ladies’ room, then sat to peer out the window and enjoy the pleasant buzz of the wine as it softened the edges of distant lights.
God, she’s a beauty. Watching her eat … that mouth … it was all I could do not to stare. But the way she talks … I’m not sure I get it. When she said “What else is there?” she seemed to mean it. So is she some kind of “free spirit” with no clue how life really works? Or am I just missing something?
As he saw her returning to the table, he rose again and noticed an odd expression crossing her features. Am I embarrassing her by standing? Or does she like the courtly gestures? He tried to help her with her chair, but she was too quick for him. He returned to his own side of the table and resumed his seat.
Their dessert arrived—a lemon mousse. Zack couldn’t keep from watching as she took her time, apparently savoring the delicate flavor he himself was enjoying.
He finished his own in four quick bites and pushed away his plate. That was tasty but I guess I wolfed it down. She’s only half way through hers. I could never eat that slowly … nor that sensuously. To distract himself, he asked, “What about that whale painting I saw at Finder’s Gallery—where did that image come from?”
She put down her fork. “I care about whales.”
Wow, she sounds vehement. “A lot of people say they care about whales. I don’t see them capturing the look in a whale’s eye. Not a happy look, either. It seemed … I don’t know, vicious, or maybe angry.”
“You would be too, if someone was shooting harpoons at you.”
“Oh, so you were imagining the whale trying to escape from whalers?”
“Out there … where? Whale watching?”
“I was a crew-member on a Peace Planet voyage.”
“I’ve heard of that group.”
“We were observing, but we were also disrupting just by being there, three thousand miles into the North Pacific. No one really enforces the quotas set up by the International Whaling Commission. And of course, the conservatives think efforts to save species is all a waste of time.”
“Oh, really.” What the hell would she think of me if she knew my dad and I run an oil company? Zack couldn’t mask the defensive edge that’d crept into his voice. “So you were part of a self-appointed police force?”
Emerald fire flashed into Miranda’s eyes. “We only have one planet, Zack. All creatures deserve respect.”
Zack laughed.
“I’m sorry you find it amusing.”
“No! No, Miranda.” He touched her hand across the table. “It’s just that … I’m trying to imagine the elegant woman in front of me standing on the deck of some ship, sketching whales in a gale-force wind. And it’s easier to picture than I thought.”
She shook her head. “When the wind was at gale-force, I was photographing actually.”
“My point is, you’re not an experienced mariner, yet you put yourself in harm’s way. Can’t you respect creatures from a distance?”
“I can’t paint a creature unless I can see it. And I need to paint them so other people can see what I’ve seen. Nature photography and wildlife art … it’s why I paint. If I can make people connect with something they see … well, like you connected with the Cove.”
A sudden tightness gripped Zack in the chest. “The Cove? Why would you say I’m connected to the Cove?”
“Well, you wanted my Cove painting at the gallery. And now you’ve commissioned me to paint that same place for you. So we went out there to—”
“Of course! Of course,” he cut her off, feeling sweat begin to bead beneath his collar.
“It’s just that when we went there yesterday, you said the Cove looked familiar.”
“Oh. Well, must’ve been some childhood memory.” Why did I say that?
“A childhood … but I thought you said you’d never been to—”
Zack cut her off again. “Actually I might’ve been to Milford-Haven when I was too young to remember. My folks might’ve brought me up the coast.”
“I see.”
He watched as Miranda grasped the edge of her napkin that now rested next to her dessert plate, twisting it until the fabric resembled a spiral shell. Awkwardness hung over the table like a sudden low fog overtaking the coastline. “Is your wine okay? Oh, that’s right, you don’t drink.” He poured himself another half glass.
She swirled her spoon once more around the edges of the now empty mousse ramekin. “The food was delicious, Zack.”
Her mother must’ve trained her well, he thought. Change the subject. Pay a compliment Zack used his own napkin to wipe his mouth and moved his chair back enough to cross his legs. “Glad you enjoyed it.” He heard the flat tone of his own voice.
“So your parents took trips along the coast when you were little?” she asked too cheerfully.
“My … parents, yeah.” He uncrossed his legs, crossed them the other way. “Did you start painting when you were a child?”
“Yes, when I—” Miranda choked on the word, then took a sip of water. “When I was a child.” The choking escalated.
Zack sat there feeling helpless. He lifted his water glass, offering her some. That’s stupid, the woman’s choking on water! Miranda continued to cough. Zack stood, crossed to her, and began patting her on the back. By now other patrons in the restaurant had noticed her difficulty, and a silence was beginning to ripple out from their table.
Miranda looked up imploringly at Zack. “I’m okay, really,” she said, her voice thin. “Please.”
Remembering how much she disliked being the center of attention, Zack sat down. “Are you?” Suddenly, he wanted to protect her, wanted to sweep her up and get her out of the place. “I hope I haven’t upset you.”
Miranda laughed weakly. “They say if you choke when you’re trying to say something, it means you’re having trouble saying it.”
“Or it could just mean you choked. You didn’t catch a fish bone, did you?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
When she turned her now-vulnerable gaze on him, he felt something catch in his own throat. Something about her beauty … and a certain willingness in her eyes. “Would you like to go?” he asked.
“Thought you’d never ask.” she murmured so quietly that he was glad he’d been listening carefully.
Zack Calvin stepped into Miranda’s foyer, waiting while she turned on lights and greeted the gray tabby cat now meowing and winding between her ankles.
“Have a seat in the living room. I’ll feed Tab Hunter.”
“Pardon me?”
“Sorry, that’s the cat. I’ll feed him and warm the cider. Do you mind turning on that table lamp by the sofa?”
“Sure,” he answered. I’m amazed she even invited me in, she seemed so shy at dinner. Nice of her to offer the cider, since, with her choking, we had to leave the restaurant before coffee was served He walked into the living room he’d seen by daylight the previous afternoon, turned on a pottery lamp and seated himself on one end of Miranda’s sofa.
A few minutes later, he watched as she arrived with two mugs of cider and placed them on coffee table coasters. She kicked off her shoes, padded in stocking-feet to her fireplace and flipped a wall switch. Instantly, flames ignited and began lapping decoratively at the faux-logs. Through the chain-mail curtain she pulled across the opening, the fire seemed real.
“Doesn’t put out a lot of heat,” Miranda said, “but it’s still nice.”
“Very nice,” he reassured.
She situated herself at the opposite end of the three-cushion sofa on which he sat. She took a sip of her cider, then folded her legs to one side and turned to face him.
I think she’s enjoying my company. But even now, she seems skittish. I’ll need to read her carefully.
She grabbed a throw-pillow from behind her and, holding it across her abdomen, curled into the corner. Something about the way she’s sitting there, hugging a pillow, hiding at the far end of the sofa … she seems suddenly shy. Yet as the firelight glinted in her emerald eyes, he sensed a fierce independence. She’s so hard to read, like a wild creature… will it flee, or will it pounce? Talk about mixed signals. Am I supposed to touch her?
Miranda shifted position to unfold and extend her legs across the middle cushion. Her long limbs—sensuously covered in the slinky green dress—stretched toward him until her toes were almost reaching his thigh.
That’s the signal I needed. Zack kicked off his own shoes and swung his legs up to parallel hers. She tucked his feet under the pillow she was holding. I can’t tell if that was a friendly—or an intimate—gesture. He responded by resting his arm on her shin, his hand cupping her knee.
He reached for his mug and took a sip of cider, while she did the same. She’s swallowing carefully. “Mmm, that’s just right on a chilly autumn evening. Throat feel better?” he asked. “No more choking?”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“So, what was it?”
She hesitated as though trying to avoid his question, then answered, “It’s just this business of being a painter that got stuck in my throat.” Suddenly, Miranda began to knead his toes.
Trying not to moan in pleasure, Zack squinted and did his best to concentrate on what she’d just said. “You’re kidding—about the painting, I mean. It’s your passion. You’re a natural.” That massage …oh, what is she doing to me?
“That’s not how my parents saw things.”
When she glanced over at the fire, Zack saw tension in her jaw as she stared into the flames. She squeezed his foot harder now.
She’s finding knots I didn’t know were there. “What, your parents didn’t approve?”
Miranda shook her head.
“Why? Not enough profit potential?”
Miranda looked at him, said nothing and moved her strong hands to his other foot.
“Not the right sort of activity for a young lady?”
“Mmm.”
“Did they thinking painting in the wild is too dangerous?”
She blinked. “All of the above. Very perceptive, by the way.” She pressed her thumbs along the length of his sole.
“Well—” He stifled the moan that was rising up his throat. If she keeps doing that, I … I won’t be able to keep from touching her for much longer. But if I do, I’m afraid she’ll fly away like a little bird … the moment will be shattered. “Well, you showed them,” he said.
“I did?” can tell she isn’t being coy. Her question’s genuine.
She worked his foot diligently, focused on her task
He felt he’d have to respond now, or explode. He looked above the fireplace and found a means of escape by focusing on her painting of a woodland clearing. Was this the forest we walked through? Maybe. And hiding in the ferns, that might be a fox. “Any artist as successful and as talented as you are … well, you’ve got it all.”
“Mmm.” Miranda looked up at the painting, and seemed to lose herself in some faraway memory. The fire hissed and flickered. The woman’s mind is far away. But her body’s right here.
Moving his hand along her leg, he began caressing the top of her thigh. As a murmur escaped her lips, he felt a surge of electricity pulse through him, propelling him forward. As he ran his hands up her long silky curves, her smokey green eyes told him everything he needed to know.
Chapter 19
Samantha Hugo sat at her kitchen desk. Pale sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds while an exuberant California Thrasher sang its song outside the window. Unable to resist a glimpse of the rare bird, Sam pushed aside the blinds and couldn’t help but chuckle when she saw it sitting on a nearby branch—its fat, brown body a picture of health, its long, curved beak parting as a complex series of notes warbled up through its throat.
