“You missed the turn,” he remarked a short time later when she failed to make the right onto the peninsula road that led to the St. Clair resort. Mercer continued to drive. If Mark weren’t so preoccupied, he’d have put two and two together earlier. By treat, she hadn’t been suggesting an ice cream sundae in the hotel restaurant.
“I don’t have time,” he protested quietly, frowning at the miniature disco ball that hung from the car’s rearview mirror. It twirled in the breeze.
“The last time I checked, the St. Clair had an assistant manager. Richard is completely capable of handling things without you for another hour.”
“I should get back. Why don’t you and Emily drop me off there and—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mark. She’s your date to the reception on Saturday. Are you afraid to see her or something?”
“Of course not,” he replied, voice tight. “I just don’t want her to think I’m stalking her. She was skittish enough about accepting my invitation in the first place.”
Mercer rolled her eyes. “She’s not going to think you’re a stalker. Besides, Samantha was asking about Emily when we met for our run last time. I’m sure she’d love to see her.”
She looked at her niece in the mirror, then said loudly enough to be heard above the noise of the open air rushing past, “Hey, Em. You’d like to visit Samantha, wouldn’t you?”
Emily bobbed her head enthusiastically.
“You’re outnumbered.” Mercer grinned, victorious.
His date. Even the terminology sounded awkward and somehow…wrong. Mark touched the ring finger of his left hand, feeling the bare patch of skin where his wedding band usually rested. He’d put it away in a drawer in the bureau of his bedroom before asking Samantha out and hadn’t worn it since. Its absence was taking some getting used to, as was the idea that he would soon be out with a woman who wasn’t Shelley or another female relative in more years than he could remember.
Reaching the quaint downtown, Mark grumbled, “This is the last time I’m letting you drive.”
They entered the café as a group of teenagers slurping lemonade from plastic cups loped out, discussing their plans for the evening. Samantha stood at the cash register, counting bills.
“Hey, Sam,” Mercer called. “We’re looking for something sweet. Can you help us out?”
Samantha smiled, her brown eyes briefly meeting Mark’s.
“Well, you came to the right place,” she said, indicating the refrigerated display case with its shelves of bakery items as she walked from behind the counter.
“Hi, Emily.” Samantha knelt to give her a hug. “Do you see something in there you like?”
Emily chewed her lip, rapt concentration on her face. Then she pointed to a golden cream puff drenched in dark chocolate.
“Make that two,” Mark said.
“I shouldn’t, but I’ll have the raspberry cream cheese brownie.” Mercer added, “With a diet soda. And Emily will have some milk.”
“Coming right up.”
“I hope you don’t mind me coming by,” Mark said to Samantha once Mercer had taken Emily to settle her at one of the tables while he paid for their food and drinks.
“No, of course not.”
He returned his wallet to his back pocket. “Mercer and I took Emily to her therapy appointment in Charleston this afternoon. We were already out, so…”
Samantha slid her gaze toward Emily. “How’d it go?”
“The psychiatrist doesn’t think she should start kindergarten in the fall.”
“Oh.” Samantha frowned and lightly touched the sleeve of Mark’s dress shirt, apparently sensing his upset. “Does Emily know?”
He shook his head. “It’s going to be a disappointment. All her friends will be going without her.”
“How are you?”
Mark sighed. “I was sort of expecting it.”
They talked for a few more moments, then Mark went to join Mercer and Emily at the table while Samantha went about plating their desserts. He watched her discreetly as she worked, her dark hair appearing glossy under the café’s recessed lighting. Maybe Mercer was right, he conceded. He did need a distraction. But he couldn’t stop focusing on the session at Dr. Richardson’s office and what she’d told him about Emily’s anxiety over the mommy doll. Despite her sweet and generally happy demeanor, it was clear she still felt Shelley’s absence profoundly. He felt responsible. He toyed with his daughter’s hair, curling it around his index finger and looking up as Samantha approached the table, carrying a tray with their orders.
“I have a special treat for Emily,” she revealed, setting one of the cream puffs in front of her. The chocolate ganache on top had been decorated with dainty purple violets and gold, edible beads. Emily’s small face lit up.
“Why don’t you sit with us, Sam?” Mercer suggested as Samantha handed out the other desserts and placed their drinks on the table. She indicated the space next to Mark, then began tucking a paper napkin into the neck of Emily’s top. “It looks like the place has slowed down for the day.”
Samantha hesitated, glancing around the otherwise empty interior before laying the tray on an adjacent table and complying. The bistro table was small, and her bare thigh accidentally brushed Mark’s as she sat down. She’s nervous around me, too, he realized, noticing the way she smoothed her hands over her khaki shorts.
“How’s business?” he asked.
“Don’t let the momentary lull fool you,” Samantha replied. “They were packed in like sardines at lunch.”
“So have you settled on an outfit for the reception yet?” Mercer dug her fork into the rich brownie.
“Not yet.”
“We just got back from Charleston, and I saw this really pretty cocktail dress in the window at Serendipity on King Street—it’s one of my favorite boutiques. It would look amazing on you.”
Samantha tucked her hair behind her ear. She’d appeared to blush a little at the reference to the upcoming event. “I’m planning to do some shopping late tomorrow afternoon. In Charleston. Luther’s going to close up for me.”
“Great.” Mercer chewed and swallowed. “This brownie is heaven, by the way. Hey, want me to go with you? I can point out the best shops.”
“That’d be great.”
“Or better yet, Mark could take you.”
Mark had just taken a large bite of his cream puff. At Mercer’s surprise offer, he felt his throat close around the flaky pastry and custard filling. He reached for his glass of water to keep from coughing.
“I’m sure Mark’s too busy,” Samantha backpedaled, a slight strain in her voice as she looked at him. “You really don’t have to. Carter told me how hectic things are at the hotel this time of year—”
“Carter?” Mark managed to ask.
She nodded. “I ran into him on the square earlier today. He was on his way to a beach barbecue or something.”
“That thing at Tommy Houghton’s place. He has it every year.” Mercer took a sip of her soda. “If I know Carter, I just bet he asked you to go with him.”
Samantha’s blush deepened. Although she didn’t reply, Mark already suspected the answer. He was also fully aware that Mercer was pushing his buttons. But her strategy had worked—his competitive hackles were raised. Since Samantha was here, she had turned down Carter’s invitation at least.
Mark lifted the paper napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. He directed his gaze to Samantha and tried to sound casual. “So what time should I pick you up?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I splurged and took a private carriage tour when I first moved here,” Samantha said to Mark as they strolled on the cobblestone path along the Battery in Charleston Harbor. “But this has been so much better. Thank you.”
Mark carried her garment bag slung over one shoulder. The shopping completed, they were killing time prior to the dinner reservations he’d made for them on East Bay Street. He had been showing her around the Historic District, pointing ou
t the centuries-old buildings and regaling her with some of the more colorful folklore. Samantha couldn’t remember when she’d had such a pleasant time. She had discovered that in addition to being an astute businessman, Mark also had a witty, self-deprecating sense of humor. Around them, the summer day had faded into a balmy evening, and the streetlamps in White Point Garden had begun to glow. To their right, the harbor’s blue waters stretched out like endless, smooth sea glass.
“I’m happy to serve as tour guide,” he said as they passed by graceful live oaks and cast-iron benches facing the waterfront. “It reminds me that I take living so close to here for granted.”
She followed his gaze to the row of well-maintained, antebellum mansions on the edge of the Battery. Soaring church steeples and spires punctured the hazy sky, giving credence to Charleston’s nickname of The Holy City.
“I’m sorry about Mercer yesterday,” Mark said. “She means well, but she can be a little pushy. I know going on two dates with me isn’t exactly what you had in mind.”
Samantha guiltily lowered her gaze, an ache in the back of her throat. She didn’t want Mark thinking she didn’t want to be with him. In reality, the opposite was true, if only her situation was different. “Please understand, it’s not that I don’t want to be here…”
But she fell silent, unsure of what to say. He gave her an inquisitive, slightly pained smile as they continued walking. “Then what is it, exactly?”
There were times when she wanted to confide in someone about her past and the serious trouble she’d left behind. But unable to answer and afraid, she felt self-loathing creep in on her.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable.”
“I don’t feel forced to be here,” she stressed. “And I think Mercer did us a favor, actually. We’re both a little nervous. Tonight’s helping break the ice before the reception on Saturday. I really am having a lot of fun.”
He appeared relieved by her assurance. “I just wish you would’ve let me pay for your dress. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be needing it in the first place.”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t let you do that.”
The designer cocktail dress had taken a serious bite out of Samantha’s budget, but she knew it was a prerequisite for fitting in at the fancy event. She had never owned anything quite like it before. It was elegant and understated, dipping just a little in front and subtly clinging to her curves. At the boutique, she’d also purchased a pair of sling-back heels and matching clutch purse, items she now carried in a shopping bag with ribbon handles. When she’d tried on the black silk dress for Mark in the upscale boutique, she’d felt a little like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. But that had been a movie, she reminded herself wistfully. There were rarely such fairy-tale endings in real life.
“Besides,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice, “I’ve heard every woman needs a little black dress. My wardrobe consists mostly of jeans and running clothes.”
Mark took her arm, gently guiding her to the left to avoid a gaggle of adolescents tossing a Frisbee on the park’s wide expanse of lawn. “Well, I’ve had the sneak preview. I’m afraid to let Carter see you in that. He’s going to want to wrestle me for you on the spot.”
She stopped walking and peered at him. “You do realize I have absolutely no interest in Carter, don’t you?”
“I was joking.”
“Carter did invite me to the barbecue, but I really think he was just asking me to tag along as a friend, nothing more.”
Mark frowned. “Sort of like you and I are just friends?”
“I…just don’t want to be the source of any more conflict.”
Realization traveled over his features. He clasped the back of his neck. “Mercer told you about Carter and Shelley.”
Samantha sighed. “She said it was a long time ago, when all of you were barely even adults—”
“What else did she tell you?”
She regretted the turn of conversation but didn’t want to lie to him.
“She told me the details about the accident,” she admitted softly. The wind coming off the harbor whipped her simple cotton skirt and pushed her dark hair into her face. “I’m so sorry for all you and Emily have gone through, Mark.”
He fell quiet, and Samantha could see the wash of pain in his blue eyes. Her fingers slid up his forearm in a comforting gesture. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and she could feel the firm sinews under his warm skin. For a moment, he appeared as though he wanted to say something, but instead he looked off across the water, his profile somber in the dwindling sunlight.
“We should probably get to the restaurant,” he mentioned finally, checking his wristwatch and closing the subject between them. “We’re still a few blocks away.”
They sat in the outdoor courtyard of a new restaurant that had just received a glowing write-up in Bon Appétit. The setting was romantic, with candlelit lanterns on the wrought-iron tables and night-blooming jasmine forming a lush veil over the building’s aged brick walls. Behind them, the graceful silhouette of another ancient church stretched up into the now-black sky.
“So what do you think?” Mark asked once Samantha had tasted her entrée, a spicy, lowcountry-style shrimp scampi.
“It’s delicious. I’m just wondering how you managed to get reservations. I’ve read about this place, and it’s booked weeks in advance.”
“I called in a favor with the owner. He’s a business acquaintance. I thought with your culinary interests, you’d appreciate the place.”
“I do.” Samantha smiled softly at him, touched by his thoughtfulness. From spending an entire late afternoon and evening with her during the busy vacation season, to finagling last-minute seating at the most popular restaurant in the city, Mark had gone to a good deal of trouble. Not to mention, most men’s idea of a good time wasn’t sitting in a ladies clothing boutique, sipping punch from china cups and waiting while their date tried on outfits. Samantha was glad their earlier conversation hadn’t ruined their time together.
“How’s your meal?” She looked at Mark’s roasted trout with brown butter.
“Fantastic. Want to try it?”
When she agreed, he scooped a generous amount onto the tines of his fork and reached across the small table with it. Samantha leaned forward, curling her fingers around his wrist to help guide the food to her mouth. The trout melted on her tongue, competing with the warmth that spread through her body at the intimacy of Mark feeding her.
“Good?”
She nodded, swallowing. Their eyes met and held in the candlelight for an endless moment.
“What?” she asked finally, after she’d touched her linen napkin to her lips.
“I’m just wondering,” Mark said in a low voice. “The St. Clair resort. Shelley, my issues with Carter. Why is it you seem to know so much about me when I still feel like I know next to nothing about you?”
Samantha lowered her gaze. She took a sip from her goblet of iced mint tea before speaking.
“Your family’s here, Mark. And I go running with your very talkative sister. Not to mention, the St. Clair name is legendary in these parts. Of course I know more about you.” She attempted a carefree shrug. “Besides, there’s really not that much to know about me.”
She felt her heartbeat quicken. Mark seemed to be evaluating her response, and she did her best to appear unaffected. But he reached across the table again, this time lightly covering her hand with his.
“I doubt that,” he said quietly. “I do want to get to know you, Samantha, if you’ll ever consider giving me the chance.”
She must have lost herself in his gaze and the courtyard’s amorous atmosphere, because it took several seconds before she realized her fingers had become intertwined with his. An electrical current had built in the air around them, the quiet conversations of the other diners receding until Mark slowly withdrew his fingers and lifted his fork from the edge of his dinner plate again. Samantha took another bite in silence. As much as she foug
ht it, her entire body had thrilled at his touch. She felt relief when Mark redirected their conversation to a topic she was more comfortable with—the business venture they had discussed earlier.
“I’m considering the infused oils and several of the pestos as individual products for the St. Clair gift shop,” Samantha told him. “Maybe also the preserved lemons? They look great in the vintage-style jars. I can see them being purchased as decoration for customers’ kitchens even if they don’t plan to cook with them.”
Mark nodded his agreement. “What about the gift baskets?”
“Traditional sweetgrass baskets handmade here make the most sense. Luther put me in touch with a woman who’s an artisan weaver. She’s bringing some samples by the café.”
They continued talking about Samantha’s ideas for the baskets as they finished their entrées and shared a rum-laced cake with two espressos for dessert. But as they were polishing off the last few delectable bites, a waiter arrived with a single drink and a long-stemmed, blood-red rose on a silver tray.
“A cocktail for the lady,” he announced, placing the glass and rose on the table in front of Samantha.
She looked up at him, confused. “I didn’t order that.”
“No, ma’am. It was sent to you with compliments.” He turned to indicate the restaurant’s large bar area, visible through a set of wide French doors. “Enjoy.”
Before Samantha had a chance to ask anything more, the waiter moved to another table of diners. A plump maraschino cherry sat submerged in the drink’s amber liquor. She knew the drink’s name from her bartending days. A Manhattan. But it was the rose that caused apprehension to prickle her skin.
“It looks like I’m not your only admirer,” Mark said.
Before the Storm Page 8
