That Summer Place: Island TimeOld ThingsPrivate Paradise

by Susan Wiggs

  Spending the summer at one particular place, year after year, conjures up a heady sense of romance and nostalgia for me. Even a pair as mismatched as Mitch and Rosie can’t resist the spell cast by the idyllic Rainshadow Lodge, because summer is as much a state of mind as a time of the year. Like the sunshine and new growth, it’s a season of possibility and promise—the perfect time to fall in love.

  Wishing you many happy summers,

  Susan Wiggs

  Box 4469

  Rolling Bay, WA 98061

  To my grandmother, Marie Banfield,

  who celebrates her birthday every summer.

  I love you, Gram.

  Thanks to Dianne Moggy of MIRA Books,

  for her vision,

  to Martha Keenan of MIRA Books,

  for her re-vision

  and to Joyce, Barb, Betty and Christina

  for always reading and believing.

  One

  There was nothing Mitchell Baynes Rutherford III hated more than missed appointments. As he watched the ferry from Anacortes discharge the last of its cargo, he gritted his teeth and started to pace. A low-slung Corvette zoomed off, followed by a Winnebago the size of a Third World country. A station wagon crammed with squabbling kids and harried parents, followed by a convertible filled with college students. And then…nothing.

  Not the person Mitch had been waiting for in the blistering August sun for the past hour. The so-called expert he had hired was nowhere to be found.

  He stopped pacing, reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and grabbed his cell phone. Flipping it open, he speed-dialed his office in Seattle, wondering if the unreliable island signal would work this time.

  “Rutherford Enterprises,” said a familiar voice.

  “Miss Lovejoy, this Dr. Galvez person didn’t show.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Rutherford, and how are you today?” his secretary said pointedly.

  He scowled, watching as a derelict Volkswagen bug, its exhaust pipe coughing up toxic smoke, limped off the ferry, the last of the last. Salsa music blared from the open windows of the little tangerine-colored car. Mitch covered one ear with his hand so he could continue his conversation.

  “Sorry to be short with you,” he said, not sorry at all. “That marine biologist you sent didn’t show.”

  “Oh, dear.” Miss Lovejoy sounded distressed, but Mitch knew her well. She was examining her manicure and looking out the window at the Seattle skyline. In front of her she probably held a voodoo doll in his shape, stuck with pins because he’d canceled her annual August vacation due to the current project. “I wonder what could have happened,” his secretary added innocently.

  The Volkswagen lurched along the exit ramp, then sputtered and died just past the ticket kiosk maybe twenty feet in front of Mitch. The driver, in a floppy sun hat and rhinestone-studded shades, banged her fists on the steering wheel and let loose with an angry monologue in rapid-fire Spanish. A pair of skinny dogs, their eyes bulging, stuck their light-bulb-size heads out the window of the car and started yapping over the tinny shriek and dull thump of the music.

  Mitch turned away, pressing his hand harder to his ear. “What’s that, Miss Lovejoy? I didn’t hear you. I might be losing the damned signal.”

  “I said, ferry service is so unreliable in the summer. My son-in-law had a twelve-hour wait in Victoria—” The signal crackled, then died.

  “Miss Lovejoy?” Mitch shouted into the phone.

  But she was gone. Swearing, Mitch killed the power and flipped the phone shut. The woman with the Volkswagen had gotten out and lifted the rear hood, exposing a steaming and cantankerous engine. He took a perverse comfort in seeing someone whose troubles far surpassed his own. Sure, it was irritating that his newest hire had missed the ferry, but he should be getting used to it by now.

  Island time, the syndrome was called. He hadn’t taken the expression seriously the first couple of days, but the concept was beginning to make a sort of annoying sense. People in the San Juans lived by their own inner clocks, not following any standard set by—God forbid—the business world. Workers came and went as they pleased, leaving a job half-finished if they got a better offer—like digging razor clams off Point No Point or climbing the Cattle Point lighthouse tower to watch a pod of whales swim by.

  The tourists seemed to find the lackadaisical pace charming, but Mitch had a job to do and a limited time in which to do it. He had rented Rainshadow Lodge for the month of August. That meant he had just four weeks to get going on his latest project—planning a new forty-slip marina at the waterfront of Spruce Island.

  Already the local planning inspector had stood him up. The marine architect had faxed some preliminary papers—and then everything had simply ground to a halt. The island sat like an emerald in the crystalline waters of a highly sensitive marine ecosystem. Before any work could be done, the entire area had to be evaluated to make sure the project wouldn’t affect the local wildlife.

  Now, it seemed, the latest contractor had let him down, as well.

  And the clock was ticking on a very expensive project.

  Mitch was about to go back to his boat—a 45-foot Bayliner he’d chartered for the month—when he walked around the rear of the Volkswagen. Glancing at the stranded motorist, he did a double take.

  She wore a short tight red dress that fit like a halter on top, tied behind her slim neck. The hemline fell short enough to be declared illegal in some places but not, luckily, in the anything-goes San Juans. High-heeled sandals enhanced the effect of long slender legs, their polished olive hue rich and gleaming in the sunlight. When she bent over to inspect the engine, the pose made his mouth go dry.

  And he hadn’t even seen her face yet.

  Who cares what her face looks like? his inner adolescent asked.

  Apparently a few other inner adolescents had kicked in, too, because a handful of ferry workers started walking toward the damsel in the red dress. Propelled by a caveman territorial instinct, Mitch strode forward, reaching her first.

  “Need some help, miss?” he asked.

  “I guess I do,” she replied, one slim arm propping up the rear hood, red-painted fingernails drumming on the metal.

  The yappers in the car trebled their barking frenzy as Mitch drew near.

  “Freddy!” the woman said sharply. “Selena! Hush up! Silencio!”

  Surprisingly the rodents complied, glaring at Mitch but no longer barking.

  “So,” she said, pushing up the brim of her hat to reveal a face that more than did justice to the lush body. She took off her shades and folded them, tucking one earpiece down between the cleft of her breasts. With a frank sweep of her dark-eyed gaze, she studied him. She seemed faintly amused. Something in her expression made him wish his shirt wasn’t quite so crisply tailored, his trousers not quite so perfectly creased, his shoes not quite so gleamingly polished.

  “You know how to fix cars?” she asked.

  “I don’t know the first thing about fixing cars,” he admitted. “We should push it out of the ferry lane, though.”

  She lowered the hood. “Good idea.” With a flash of her extravagantly gorgeous legs, she got in the driver’s side and, mercifully, flipped off the radio. “You push and I’ll steer.”

  Great, thought Mitch, taking off his suit coat and slinging it over the passenger-side window. The rug rats immediately set to sniffing it. Mitch didn’t let himself watch. If one of the Chihuahuas decided to mark its territory, he didn’t want to be a witness.

  “Head for the lot over by the waterfront,” he said, gesturing.

  She nodded, tossing the sun hat on the seat beside her. Mitch glanced over his shoulder at the ferry workers. C’mon, guys, he thought, but since he’d beaten them to the punch, they had clearly lost interest.

  “Okay, I’m in neutral,” she called out the window.

  Nice accent, he thought. Barely noticeable, just in the r’s and a few elongated vowels. Setting his palms flat against the sun-heated back of
the car, he pushed, feeling the resistance lessen as the small battered Volkswagen started to roll. A moment later she’d managed to maneuver it into a parking space at the waterfront lot.

  “Stay, guys,” she instructed the dogs, then got out and came around the back of the car, nodding at Mitch. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He tried not to stare, but she was gorgeous. Full red lips, hair dark and silky, eyes even darker and the lashes silkier. A single teardrop of sweat trickled down between her breasts. A tiny gold cross on a dainty chain lay against her smooth skin. He nearly groaned aloud. “Um, is there someone you could call? Do you belong to an auto club?”

  She laughed, a bright staccato sound. “This car’s older than I am. I always figured if it broke down, I’d just walk away.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “Well, is there someone you could call?”

  “Yeah, I’d better. I’m late for an appointment.” She turned and scanned the ferry landing just as the boat blasted its horn and pulled away from the dock. She bit her lower lip. Mitch’s inner adolescent came to full alert. “Someone was supposed to meet me, but I don’t see him.”

  He yanked his gaze from her berry-bright mouth and forced his brain to kick in. “Whoa. You can’t be Dr. Galvez.”

  Her face lit with a grin as generous and bright as the summer sun. Mitch didn’t know many women who smiled so quickly and openly.

  She stuck out her hand. “Dr. Rosalinda Galvez. My friends call me Rosie. You must be Mr. Rutherford.”

  “Mitch,” he said quickly, his mind trying to reorganize all his expectations. The fax from Miss Lovejoy had said only that he was to meet “R. Galvez, Ph.D.” who would arrive on the afternoon ferry from Anacortes. Based on that, his unimaginative mind had pictured a professorial type. Middle-aged. Male. Probably balding and maybe a little paunchy around the middle. Thick-lensed eyeglasses, because all that peering into microscopes had affected his eyesight.

  “Mr. Rutherford,” she said. “Mitch. Is something wrong?”

  “Me,” he blurted.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  She reached into the car, randomly picking up one of the Chihuahuas and stroking it absently. The dog nuzzled against her midsection. “I’m not following you.”

  He tried his best not to be jealous of a rat. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “Oh.” She did that lip-biting thing again; it was making him nuts. Her knowing gaze took in his custom-made shirt, Armani slacks, tasseled Italian loafers. “You are.”

  He spread his arms, feeling the sweat run. “I dressed for a business meeting. Old habits die hard.”

  “So I guess I should get my things, right?” she asked, tilting her head to one side. “I mean, your assistant said we’d be going to Spruce Island by private boat.”

  “That’s right.” He pointed out the Bayliner. “It’s in a slip down there. I’ll go get a handcart.”

  “Great.”

  “You need a parking tag from the attendant,” he suggested. “Long-term.”

  She flashed her amazing smile again. “I like the sound of that.”

  “It’s only a month.”

  She rolled her eyes. “The way my life has been going, a month is forever.”

  “I guess that means you haven’t changed your mind.”

  She laughed easily and put the dog back in the car. “No chance of that, Mr.—Mitch.”

  A few minutes later he was still trying to get his bearings. His marine biologist was Carmen Miranda. She drove a Volkswagen bug older than she was, complete with plastic Virgin on the dashboard and fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. She had Chihuahuas named after deceased Latino singers and a smile he could live on for weeks. He couldn’t decide whether this was a stroke of good luck or a joke played by fate.

  He watched her open the front trunk of the car, noting the lyrical movement of long sleek muscles as she moved, and decided he could put up with the Chihuahuas.

  “Here’s all my stuff,” she said.

  He brought the handcart near. A medium-size suitcase, a case of Gainsburger and a large box of technical-looking apparatus lay in the trunk. “You travel pretty light,” he commented.

  “I had another big suitcase,” she said a little wistfully, “but…” She let her voice trail off.

  “But what?”

  “I left it with a woman at the ferry terminal in Anacortes.”

  Mitch frowned, tossing the dog food into the cart. “Why’d you do that?”

  “She needs the stuff more than I do.”

  He blinked. Homeless people were so sadly common these days that they’d become invisible to most passersby. It was unusual to find someone who actually did something about it. “That was pretty nice of you,” he said.

  “I didn’t do it to be nice. I did it because she needed some things.” She banged the trunk shut. “Freddy, Selena, c’mon.” They scooted out the driver’s-side door. She retrieved her hat and a box of cassette tapes and CDs, then took out a small cooler of water. “For the dogs,” she explained. Lastly she drew out a big, bulging file box.

  “And that?” Mitch asked, taking it from her.

  “All my personal papers.” Her gaze skated away from him. “I, um, gave up my apartment.”

  “This job isn’t permanent,” he reminded her.

  She winked. “Like I said before, a month is forever.”

  Mitch helped her roll up the car windows. “That everything?”

  “I guess so,” she said, dropping a set of keys into an oversize tote bag with a faded chemical-company logo on it.

  “Aren’t you going to lock the car?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Hey, if somebody can find something worth stealing in this heap, more power to him. The speakers have been blown for years.”

  What a strange woman, Mitch thought as he wheeled the handcart down to the boat. Possessions didn’t seem to mean a thing to her.

  He held open the gate leading to the boat slips. “Ladies first,” he said.

  She treated him to that dazzling smile he was already half in love with and preceded him down the ramp, the dogs skittering and dancing with joy at her feet.

  God, Mitch thought before he could stop himself, what did those legs look like from the Chihuahuas’ perspective?

  Two

  Mitchell Rutherford was a knight in shining armor. He couldn’t know it, but he’d saved her life.

  Rosie didn’t dare tell him, though. He had that look about him. That look that said he’d take off running the minute he realized she had no place to go, no money, no prospects, nothing beyond this one-month assignment for his firm.

  Free-falling without a net was nothing new to Rosie Galvez. Having grown up in a family of eight, she’d long ago learned the power of blind faith in the basic decency of the universe. But this last disaster had left her shaken. This time she almost hadn’t survived.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to cast off,” she called to him, angling her head to see him up on the bridge. Beneath a green canvas bimini, with blue sky and wheeling gulls in the background, he looked like an ad for aftershave. “I’ll take care of the lines.”

  “Thanks.” The twin engines came to life with a low-throated growl of power.

  She unwound the line from the cleats fore and aft, tossing them aboard and then shoving the boat, bow out, away from the dock. She hoisted herself aboard, gritting her teeth as she turned her ankle. The heeled sandals had been a mistake. She hoped her sneakers weren’t in the big suitcase she’d given the homeless woman.

  Another stellar moment in her crazy life.

  As she bent over the rail, bringing in the large blue fenders, a wolf whistle sounded from the dock. She glanced up, seeing a pair of yacht-club rejects watching her. “Business or pleasure?” one of them called, elbowing his friend. Idiots, she thought, tossing her head. She disliked the assumption that she and Mitch were some rich guy and his Latino bimbo.
/>   Of course, as her brother Carlito would say, you can’t dress like that and expect people to call you Professor Galvez.

  The trouble was, she liked wearing high-heeled sandals. She liked driving a funky old car and listening to loud music and wearing her hair too long and her dresses too short. Basically, she liked who she was.

  Except the part about being flat broke.

  She glanced guiltily up at Mitch, who was concentrating on getting the boat out of the harbor. “Need any more help?” she called.

  “I’m fine, thanks. We’ll dock at Spruce Island in about forty minutes.”

  The dogs, ever adaptable, had made themselves at home in the salon of the boat, which was furnished with a small sofa and club chair. Rosie slipped off her sandals and climbed the ladder to the bridge. She stood beside Mitch and, buoyed by the warm summer breeze that blew across the water, her spirits began to rise.

  “I’ve got some drinks in the cooler,” he said. “Help yourself.”

  She selected plain bottled water. “Would you like something?”

  “I’ll take a beer.” He put on his shades and moved out into the channel. A flotilla of sailboats passed to the north of them, graceful as birds with their sails all bent into the wind. The summer day had the clarity of a diamond. No sky was ever bluer than the sky over the San Juans in August.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, lifting her face to the moving sea air.

  Mitch took a heading to the southwest. “I guess so.”

  He didn’t sound as if he meant it. She was usually pretty good at reading people, so as she sipped her water, she tried her skills on Mitchell Baynes Rutherford III. Handsome, of course, but not high-maintenance handsome. He had a certain easy grace about him. She suspected, studying the pleasing breadth of his shoulders, that he’d been blessed by natural athletic fitness. No doubt he kept himself too busy making money to work out in a gym or go to one of those nauseating male salons that seemed so popular lately.