What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One

by Mara Purl

  Though her conversation with Susan had been daunting, Sam still felt it’d gone well. And she’d reduced her mountain of work—if not to a mole hill—at least to a more manageable mound.

  Susan. Work. They’re not bothering me at the moment. It’s that message I left at the Chernak Agency. They’d return the call “promptly” their outgoing message had said. Well, this isn’t prompt to my way of thinking.

  Though she’d accomplished some real work at the office today—particularly by generating a follow-up list based on her Coastal Commission notes—still, with half an ear, she’d listened all day for the return phone call. Irritated when it didn’t come—even though she’d stayed after hours—she’d finally locked up the office come home, promising herself she’d tackle her stack of reading.

  But with the evening upon her, she felt too agitated to read and too unsettled to relax. I had no idea one phone call would churn up so many emotions. I thought these were processed long ago but look how they’ve grabbed my attention.

  The Art Nouveau clock chimed seven times. How could an hour have passed since I got home? I certainly have nothing to show for it. She could ill afford to waste what precious time she had away from the office.

  At one end of her short walk, the kitchen counter serving as her desk seemed to groan under the weight of papers and files stacked too high to remain secure. She gazed at the piles, unable to tackle them.

  It’s dinner time. I should eat something. Stepping to her refrigerator, she opened it and surveyed its contents. A half-eaten apple. The remnants of a salad. A head of red cabbage. Four bottles of cranberry juice. Two yogurts.

  She slammed the door, badly rattling the contents of the refrigerator door. Wincing, she stood undecided in the middle of the floor.

  Writing in my journal is one of the few things that helps a mood like this. But I’ve promised myself a nice long session tomorrow morning. And besides, I’m too hungry, now, not to eat. But what? And where?

  Walking quickly to her bedroom, she pulled on her heavy cableknit sweater and dashed a comb through her hair. I could get something to go. Maybe a crab salad. That’d suit my crabby mood perfectly. I could bring it here and zone out in front of the television.

  Grabbing her shoulder bag, she walked out her front door, slammed the door of her Jeep Cherokee, turned her key in the ignition, and started for the Main Street Grill.

  Joseph had managed—though still upset about Chris—to choke down the excellent dinner left for him. Now he took his tray into the kitchen and restrained himself from hurling his plate into the stainless steel sink.

  Damn! It’s not worth feeling excited by some young thing if this kind of stress and upset came with the package!

  He considered his options: jump into his car and roar up the highway; write Chris a curt letter; pour himself a stiff drink and lay low.

  He chose the latter. Now the challenge was to peel himself off the ceiling; calm himself down; refocus on work, the estate, charity events, all the tasks and responsibilities cluttering his agenda book.

  Walking into his office, he yanked the chair out of the way and stood at his desk. Staring at his brown leather planner, he flipped it open and glanced at the pages full of meetings, notes, lists, phone calls.

  He reread tomorrow’s schedule—a habit he’d cultivated years earlier as a means of preparing for the next business day. Automatically, he reran the facts and background on the people he and Zack would be meeting, prioritized which items would need his attention first. Calmer now, he sat down and flipped to the previous day, recalling what he’d done, the calls he’d made and received.

  And then he began leafing methodically backwards, slowly reviewing the past several days, until he came to a brief memo: Dinner with Chris. Seemed innocuous enough. Important enough for me to write it down. But apparently not important enough for her to show up. He turned back still further.

  Three days before that had been their last date. Chris was the only notation written on the page. But he knew his own shorthand. The word was written at an angle—something he never did for business appointments.

  How transparent my feelings are, he thought bitterly, passing his finger across the word penned such a short time ago. What did we do that night? Oh, yes. I ended up at her place. He smiled in spite of himself. Waking up with her was always a pleasurable surprise.

  But then she’d received that phone call … something about going to some house if she wanted the story. He’d made light of the mysteriously obscure message. But she hadn’t. She’d suddenly turned all business.

  Well, I can do the same, he decided. He stood and slammed the agenda closed with a finality he didn’t know he could summon so suddenly.

  Chapter 23

  Miranda Jones swept a hand across the special quilt her sister’d had made for her, but decided to leave it resting across the end of her sofa. Stepping out onto her balcony, she zipped her fleece against the evening chill. A full moon rode high among trailing clouds, frosting them, and the waves below, with silvery iridescence.

  The scene before her—a picture more glorious than anything she could capture in paint—appeared at once beautiful and eerie. A cloud-wraith skittered across the moon like a unsettled, anxious ghost. Miranda shuddered and folded her arms across her chest.

  It’s almost Halloween … ghosts of the past like to gather. And what are ghosts? Unresolved issues? Unpaid debts? Unrequited emotions?

  Unbidden, images of people from her own past began parading before her like a cast of characters wearing costumes. Her parents with disappointment on their faces; her sister with admonitions; her ex-boyfriend with his anger. Yet they can only haunt me if I let them.

  A breeze whispered in from the ocean and through the pines. She inhaled and gazed again at the evening panorama. There’s nothing wrong here, she reassured herself. Intuition murmured that whatever still lingered unresolved in her life, she could work on in Milford-Haven. This is a place of beauty, peace and… possibility. A gust of wind riffled her hair, as if the spirits of the Central Coast wished to confirm they were more inclined to bless than to terrify.

  Moving back inside, she closed the sliding door and walked the few steps into her studio, where, from the unfinished piece on the easel, the cheetah seemed to give her a baleful stare. Lia looks trapped on that canvas… and mad about it.

  Despite the artist’s hours of careful work using a fine brush to feather in every detail from the spotted fur to the lush eyelashes, the feline subject had yet to come “alive.” Miranda drew a hand through her hair, then twirled the ends absently. My job is to reveal her spirit, not encase her in paint.

  The deadline for this project suddenly began thrumming in Miranda’s mind, like the ticking of an enormous clock. And this isn’t the only job I have to finish. I’ve got the Seal Babies, the Otters—not to mention the new commission from Zack, and now the shell drawing for the flier.

  A shaft of moonlight, suddenly unveiled by a shifting cloud, pierced the windowpane and penetrated the heart cockle that rested on the sill, suffusing it with silver light. It glowed in the beams like a luminous gem, and Miranda reached for it, holding the delicate object up to the window for a clearer view.

  Now I can glimpse its interior structure … the core that informs the external shape. Maybe that’s what’s missing from Lia … the internal fire. Maybe if I leave the cheetah piece alone for a day or so … do something smaller, simpler … like the shell sketch … maybe then I can come back to Lia fresh.

  Glancing around the studio, her gaze came to rest on the four recent sumi-e scrolls that now hung in parallel against the wall. I’m doing miniature watercolors. Maybe I could do a sumi-e miniature of the shell!

  The idea—like a crystalline drop of water striking the surface of a shimmering pond—pinged her imagination, rippling outward in concentric circles. I could do paintings of other shells…. Love this idea! Don’t want to stay up half the night. I’ll start on it first thing tomorrow.

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sp; With a sigh—part satisfaction, part fatigue—she headed downstairs to run a hotter-than-usual tub laced with Epson salts. This’ll feel good after that long ride today.

  Despite having treated her muscles brutally, they ached with only a mild throb. After peeling off her clothes, she sank into the steaming water until it covered her shoulders and grazed her chin, noticing how it misted the window through which she could usually see the stars.

  It’s been an eventful few days … creating my sumi-dance-paintings … Zelda buying a painting … sending out my water-color postcards … starting my artist-journal … finding the heart cockle shell … and meeting Zack.

  She could feel her muscles tense under the water, and told herself to relax. A client … a friend, maybe. A gorgeous guy, a good kisser. But I’m glad we didn’t take it any further. He’s too … he makes me … I don’t know, nervous.

  Suddenly feeling watched, Miranda turned her head to see Tab Hunter pad across the room and take a seat on the bath mat.

  “Oh, kitty, it’s you. Don’t you know it’s not polite to stare at a lady bathing?”

  The cat blinked his green eyes.

  “I’ll be out in a few minutes. You can sleep on my bed if you like.”

  Apparently having expected the invitation, the tabby came to his feet and strode quietly out of the room.

  Miranda closed her eyes and enjoyed one more long, delicious moment before forcing herself to move, and it was only the irrational fear of falling asleep and sliding down under the surface that inspired her climb out.

  She surged from the water—like a whale breaching, she thought—the sound loud after the quiet. After drying herself, she brushed the length of her dark hair slowly, the bristles scraping pleasantly along her scalp. From a hook on back of the door, she pulled a full-length nightshirt of undyed cotton and felt it float comfortably over her warm skin. I wonder what Zack wears to bed?

  When she’d brushed her teeth, she walked into her bedroom, pausing for a moment to look out the large window. Stars blinked through the tops of the tall pines adjacent to the house, the few constellations she recognized somehow reassuring. An owl hooted, and she felt comforted by the sound, as though the world were telling her goodnight.

  She smiled at the sight of the tabby curled contentedly in the middle of her bed. Lifting a corner of her down comforter, she slid carefully between the leaf-patterned sheets.

  Still wondering about the man that’d just entered her life, she closed her eyes. Are you thinking about me tonight, Zack? Immersed in a pleasant exhaustion, Miranda sank into a deep sleep.

  Zack Calvin stood in his shower, supporting his weight with his outstretched arms, letting the hot needles of water hammer his tired shoulders.

  Loved my trip. But there’s no place like home … my own space, my own shower and, soon, my own bed. In fact, the moment he’d walked through his front door, he’d dropped his bags in front of his walk-in closet, thrown off his clothes and headed for the spacious glassed cubicle.

  As the massaging flow continued to pummel, he pictured Miranda being here with him, her long hair streaming with water, clinging to her body. The image aroused him, and he stopped himself from carrying it further—for now.

  Let the relationship keep up with itself for once. It’s a goal. A challenge. One I’ve never achieved before, God knows.

  Turning the handle to the off position, Zack glanced through the glass and noticed the stack of freshly laundered, oversized bath sheets their housemaid always left ready in his bathroom. Stepping out, he used the top one—huge, white and fragrant—to scrub the excess water from his hair, then wrapped it around his waist.

  Slightly overheated from the shower, he grabbed a liter bottle of Evian water from the supply beneath his sink and headed into the bedroom. After a long pull, he placed the bottle on his night table, yanked back the charcoal-gray bed clothes and plumped the pillows.

  Flopping onto the bed, he clicked the TV remote. He knew he wouldn’t watch long … just something to help him decompress after the drive. Enjoying the temporary mindlessness, he channel-surfed for a few minutes.

  He glanced at his clock. I’d wanted to call Miranda tonight, but now it’s late—after nine. I’m afraid I’ll wake her. Tomorrow I’ll call her. He smiled as he recalled her face, exquisite in its natural beauty. A find, he thought. A real find.

  Zack clicked off the TV. Standing, he turned off all the bedroom lights and dropped his towel. Damn. Forgot to do my teeth. He returned to the bathroom to brush and floss, then switched off the bathroom light. His eyes tried to adjust to the sudden darkness as he moved back to the bed. He paused to inhale a trace of gardenia. Must be wafting in through the window. He slid his naked body between the smooth sheets. Ahh, I’m going to sleep well tonight.

  In the next second, something warm—something alive—touched the flesh of his thigh. His body catapulted out of the bed. “Holy Mother of God!” He somehow managed to land on his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs like a blacksmith on an anvil.

  “No, no, Zackery. It’s just Cynthia.” Her voice came out of the dark, disembodied.

  This has to be a practical joke. Someone’s put a tape recorder on my bed and wired it to a sensor.

  Zack snapped on the bedside light. “What the hell … Cynthia? What do you think you’re doing?”

  “We have plans to spend the weekend together.” She grinned. “I just thought we’d get started a little early. Doesn’t the weekend begin on Friday night?”

  There she was, as perfectly posed as a catalogue girl: shapely breasts laced into something pink and satin; one leg coyly perched atop the covers; the bed clothes held at her waist. He continued to stand dumbfounded.

  “That’s quite a picture, Zackery darling. I’ve always thought that was your best outfit.”

  Only then did he remember he stood naked. Cursing again, he moved to grab his robe from behind the bathroom door. “Cynthia … what … how did you get in here?”

  “Oh, please, we’re practically engaged.”

  He let out a loud guffaw. “What ever gave you the idea we were engaged, Cynthia? No, I’m serious, how and when did you get in here?”

  Coyly pulling the covers up a little higher, she said, “I wanted to surprise you after your long week out of town. I thought it was time to come out of the closet.” She giggled at her own joke. “Oh, Zackery, you know me, I can’t resist a little shock value.“

  “Yeah, well, you can say that again. I don’t think my heart’s going to slow down till Tuesday.” He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the adrenaline rush subsiding, leaving him drained.

  She slid closer to him. “Zackery … you know I didn’t mean anything by it! I just mean that you’re … I missed you so much!” Before he could defend himself, she wrapped him in her arms, planted her lips on his. Pressing her warm body against him, she kissed him passionately, expertly.

  Coming up for air, he heard her whisper words between the next round of kisses. “I was thinking about you last night,” she said, her breath shallow, her voice a throaty whisper. “I was thinking about the way you—”

  “Yeah,” he interrupted. “I … I missed you too.” He turned toward her and, holding her upper arms, gently pushed her away, his guilt diminishing his anger. “I uh. … Listen, why don’t you—”

  “Oh, yes! Zackery, yes! I will!” She was on him again in an instant, straddling him, her fragrant blond tresses curling around his face, the pink satin caressing his bare chest. Leaning against him, she pushed him down into the pillows.

  He tried to protest, “I … Cynthia … there’s—”

  “I know, darling, I know. You’re tired. You’ve had a long drive. Don’t worry. Cynthia fix.”

  As he tried to frame words, Zack heard a snap, and her breasts tumbled out of the satin. He lay speechless as he felt her knees grip either side of his hips. Why do I feel so helpless? She’s arousing me in spite of myself

  “Oooh. So you did miss me.”

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nbsp; She moved again, and he felt himself responding, entering her. Why couldn’t he say that everything had changed now, that he’d met himself somewhere on that highway north, that somewhere a window had opened? Or had it really? Had the week away been just a dream? And was this what it felt like to awaken back in the real world?

  “Oh! Oh! Zackery—you’re so good to me.” The passion in her voice intoxicated him. Cynthia leaned into him now, taking him deep, riding him with expertise both brutal and compelling in its familiarity.

  And despite his best intentions, Zack found himself succumbing to the thrill of satisfying the rapacious appetite of the hungriest woman he knew.

  Chapter 24

  from Samantha Hugo’s Journal

  written at the Lighthouse Tavern

  Saturday morning

  Michael Owen has been nice enough once again to let me sit here in his restaurant during an off-hour. I ordered a pot of tea and told him I wouldn’t need any further service. And since it’s late Saturday morning, and he’s not open for breakfast or lunch, I’m not interfering with any other customers. Lovely cooking smells are starting to drift through the room as he and his staff begin preparing for this evening’s dining.

  From my vantage point at a corner table I can see a gorgeous wedge of coastline that already is inspiring me to take a nice long walk later today. Meanwhile, it’s lovely sitting here, away from both work and home, and handy having a table since my journals are these 8 ½ × 11 hardcover tomes that are a little unwieldy when I write outside.

  I was carrying my journal the other day when I went into the post office. I saw that woman there again—the one I don’t know well, but often run into there. When she noticed my journal, she asked if I wrote in it every day.

  “No,” I said, “but often.”

  “Oh, brother,” she said, “I could fill it up for you.”

  We laughed, but I sensed her pain.