She turned to Beth, who was shaking Lori’s hand. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something.” She smiled awkwardly. “I assume Mrs. Winter wants floral arrangements.”
“Of course. And she’ll want her own flowers used for the party. She’s very particular about that.”
Chelsea nodded. No surprise. “Particular” was the understatement of the year. Mrs. Winter was the most particular person she’d ever laid eyes on, especially when it came to something or someone that she believed belonged to her. Holly’s ruined life was a testimony to that. “Then I assume we’ll be working with the gardener concerning arrangements.”
“The gardener?” Beth gave her a blank look. “Mrs. Winter doesn’t employ a gardener.”
“But I thought . . .” Chelsea frowned. “What about Jeff? He was pruning the bushes, and I assumed . . .” She couldn’t finish; there was a strange weakness in her shoulders.
“Oh, Jeff.” Beth laughed. “Jeff loves to garden, but he’s not an employee.”
“He’s not?”
“Far from it. He’s Mrs. Winter’s son by her first marriage.”
Chapter Three
Chelsea’s face was almost as pink as her blouse when she headed the van down the long driveway that circled the Winter estate. Beth’s stunning revelation had made the color leap instantly into her cheeks; she hadn’t been able to come up with any response other than a weak, “Oh, I didn’t realize,” as she fumbled to regain her composure.
As soon as the van doors were safely shut, Lori let out a low whistle. “Wow! What a faux pas! But I don’t blame you, Chels; I thought the same thing. He doesn’t look anything like his mother.”
Chelsea remembered Jeff’s hand on her arm as she struggled to muster a small scrap of dignity. “He led me on, Lori. He never corrected me when I referred to Muriel as his employer. He was playing some kind of sick game.”
Lori frowned sympathetically. “You didn’t say anything incriminating when the two of you were alone, did you?”
“I hope not. But I’m afraid I got a bit carried away on the subject of Queen Muriel. You know me.”
“Only too well. Let’s just hope he’s not one of those loyal sons who confides everything to his mother.”
Chelsea sighed.
“I wonder if there’s anything we can do for damage control.” Lori stroked the smooth skin of her forehead, as if to erase nonexistent wrinkles. “Do you think there’s any way you could convince him you were joking?”
“I don’t know.” Chelsea suddenly remembered Jeff’s suggestion that they spend the afternoon together. “Oh God,” she said dismally. “I guess I’ll have to go out with him.”
“What? He asked you out?”
Chelsea nodded. “While we were waiting for you to get back. I had to mention Stuart to hold him off.”
“Ah, the old Stuart ploy again. When are you going to come clean with the rest of the world and admit that he’s just a good friend?”
Chelsea shot her a dark look. “He’s more than that, and you know it, Lori. We tell each other everything. We’re practically soul mates.”
“So you say, but I don’t see the two of you setting a wedding date anytime soon.”
“Marriage isn’t the goal of my existence, sis. Besides, our relationship isn’t like that. We don’t make emotional demands on each other.”
“Meaning neither of you is ready to commit yourself. How many great guys have you turned down because of your relationship with Stuart? I would never have met Paul if I’d followed your example.”
“You live your life, I’ll live mine.” Chelsea turned onto Route 1, heading toward Portland. “Do you still want me to drop you at Paul’s office?”
“Please.” Lori was still looking at her with a sad expression. “I’m sorry, Chels. And you’re right about living your own life. It’s just that I love you.”
“I know. I love you too.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Call Jeff Blaine, I guess. Tell him I’ve changed my mind, that I’d like to go out with him. Then find a way to persuade him that I think Mrs. Winter is God’s gift to the coast of Maine.”
Lori laughed. “That’ll take more acting talent than even you possess, Chels.”
“What choice do I have? I might as well give it my best shot.”
“I wish I could be a fly on the wall when you make that phone call.”
“No way, sis. I’m going to have to spend several hours just working up my nerve.”
“Chelsea Adams, having to work up nerve? That’s got to be a first.”
“Don’t get nasty.” Chelsea checked her rearview mirror. They were coming into Portland and the traffic was heavier. Up ahead she could see smoke gray buildings against the skyline and the glint of Back Cove in the distance.
“Well, don’t wait too long,” said Lori. “Or he’ll get himself another date. I had the impression that Mr. Blaine and Miss Harmon were pretty interested in each other.”
Chelsea glanced over at her. “You noticed it too?”
“It was hard to miss. Not that I’m surprised. He looks like a heartbreaker to me.”
“I know what you mean.” Chelsea thought of Jeff’s dark eyes and felt an unexpected twinge of excitement in the pit of her stomach. “Looks like Mrs. Winter’s sons were both cut from the same cloth.”
Chelsea picked up the phone and put it down again three times before she finally dialed. Sitting in the Strawberry Lace kitchen while she waited for a pan of pastry cups to bake, Chelsea had to finally threaten herself with the fact that the future of Strawberry Lace was in jeopardy. Her mouth as dry as if it had just been sand-scoured, she punched the buttons one by one and listened to the buzz that signaled the phone ringing on the other end of the line. What if Jeff picked up the phone himself? What would she say? Or, even worse, what if Muriel Winter answered?
It was picked up on the third ring. “Winter estate. Beth Harmon speaking. May I help you?”
Chelsea felt a wave of relief that dissipated almost instantly. “Beth, this is Chelsea Adams.”
“Oh, hi, Chelsea! What can I do for you? Did we forget to cover something?”
“No, everything’s fine. I’d like to . . . I was wondering if I could . . .” She stopped, swallowed. “Is Mr. Blaine there?”
“Jeff?” There was a note of surprise in the pleasant voice.
“Yes, I’d like to speak to him.”
“Just a moment, please.” There was a click, then the dead tone that told her she’d been put on hold. She hated that; she always felt as if she were in a box or something, with the cover nailed on. Unable to hear the sound of approaching footsteps or voices in the background, she didn’t know when the phone would be picked up. She closed her eyes, twisted a curl of hair around her finger, counted mentally to ten. Once, twice, three times.
“Hello, Chelsea.” It was Jeff’s voice, but she couldn’t read it. Was he pleased she had called? Or irritated at being interrupted? There was no clue in his tone. “What can I do for you?”
She sucked air into her lungs. “I wanted to let you know—” She stopped. She couldn’t believe she was actually calling up a guy and telling him she’d changed her mind. She wasn’t the kind of person who changed her mind about things; once she’d decided something, she always stuck to her guns.
“Is something wrong?” His voice sounded a little warmer, which gave her courage to continue.
“No, it’s about that invitation to go to the beach this afternoon.”
“Yes?”
He obviously wasn’t going to make this easy for her. Maybe he was angry about her rejection. Some men, she knew, were extremely sensitive about such things, although he certainly hadn’t struck her as that type at all. More the opposite. She had a reckless impulse to hang up.
Well, she couldn’t. She didn’t have a choice. She had to make some connection with him, had to be sure that he wouldn’t repeat her comments to his mother. It had to be done for the sake of the busin
ess. She glanced over her shoulder at the shining row of cake pans she’d lined up on the big central worktable for the afternoon’s baking. They were catering a fortieth birthday party tomorrow afternoon. She’d have to reschedule the baking for tonight.
“My afternoon’s freer than I realized. I hope it’s not too late to accept.”
There was a short silence. She almost died, waiting for his answer. Please, dear God, make him say yes, she prayed. Make everything be all right.
Finally his voice came to her. “I thought you said you were involved with someone.”
She could have kicked herself for not thinking her way out of this impasse ahead of time. She looked helplessly at the ceiling as if there might be some answer written there. Nothing.
“Well,” she said, groping for inspiration, “it’s kind of an off-again, on-again thing.”
“Oh. And right now it’s off?”
“Sort of.”
“You’ve had a fight.”
“Not exactly.” She might as well just plunge in and make up some wild story; she couldn’t get in any deeper than she already was. “We’ve decided to give each other some space. See other people for a while.”
“Sounds like he’s got his eye on another woman.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She couldn’t believe she was talking this way, casually lying about her relationship with Stuart. And, on top of that, practically begging this breathtakingly handsome man to go out with her. It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d ever done, nothing she’d do in a million years. “So, anyway, is the invitation still open? Can we go to the beach?”
“Sure.”
She wished he sounded a little more enthusiastic. Maybe he didn’t believe her; maybe he thought she was playing with him. Which, in a way, she was. But only for the sake of the business, she reminded herself sharply. Otherwise, she’d be up to her elbows in cake batter right now.
“Good,” she said. “Where should I meet you?”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“Fine. My apartment’s right over the Strawberry Lace shop, opposite—”
“I know where it is,” he said abruptly. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
In her bedroom, Chelsea pulled on her old black bathing suit, wishing she’d splurged and bought a new one two weeks ago, when Lori suggested it. At the time, it hadn’t seemed important. Stuart didn’t care what she wore; she was used to swimming with him in cutoffs and a tank top when they went to the beach. Which wasn’t often. Neither of them were eager swimmers; growing up so close to the ocean built a certain respect into a person; you learned early that the sea wasn’t something to fool around with. Besides, both she and Stuart preferred spending their free time on Chelsea’s Choice.
She hoped she hadn’t made a big mistake, taking the afternoon off. She’d have to spend the whole evening baking now, not her favorite activity when she was tired. But it couldn’t be helped. She had to mend her fences, and mend them well.
She stuffed her beach towel, blue terry cover-up, and a large bottle of sunscreen into her canvas tote bag, then slipped into a pair of pink cotton shorts and a matching cotton knit shirt. She had to make the most of her assets on this crucial afternoon, and pink brought out the rose tones in her skin and set off her hair. In the bathroom she freshened her makeup, twisted her hair into a loose knot at the top of her head, and slipped gold hoops into her ears, before admiring the effect in the mirror. She smiled and gave herself a thumbs-up. If this look didn’t affect Jeff Blaine, then she’d eat her towel.
She grabbed her woven sea-grass hat and pushed it down onto her head just as the doorbell rang, so she didn’t have time to check herself again in the mirror. But she remembered how the lacy shadows had played across her face one hot afternoon last summer aboard the Chelsea, creating an effect so charming that Stuart had remarked about it for days.
The doorbell rang again. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Hi, Jeff! Come on in.” She made her voice bright and cheery. “Would you like something to drink before we leave?”
Jeff didn’t move, just stood looking down at her with those incredible eyes. They briefly swept over her body and then returned to her face before he answered. “No thanks. I think we’d better get going.”
“Sure. I’m all set.” She slid her tote bag onto her arm. She felt a little more nervous than she’d expected. Was it because he wasn’t smiling?
“I was thinking we’d go out to Hillcrest Beach, if that’s okay with you.”
“Fine. I’m almost ashamed to admit I haven’t been there since I was a kid.”
“It’s gorgeous,” he said. “The surf’s spectacular. By the way, you look great.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
He really did look good. Like he’d just stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalogue. He was wearing white shorts and a blue knit shirt. His feet were settled comfortably into a worn pair of Birkenstock sandals.
She locked the door and led him down the narrow wooden stairs to the apartment entrance. She’d been thrilled, three years ago, to buy this place at a bargain price. It was the perfect setup: the downstairs shop with its large display window where she and Lori created sophisticated arrangements enchanting enough to attract customers in off the street; the small reception room, decorated in pink and white, with its easy chairs and stacks of picture albums featuring the most elegant affairs catered by Strawberry Lace; the huge kitchen behind, with its wide counters and shining appliances, the pots and pans suspended attractively and conveniently from long beams above the counters. And upstairs the perfect two-bedroom apartment, which had only needed a little attention to give it a homelike feel.
When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, Chelsea’s eyes went directly to the rusted gray Chevy Nova parked in front of the shop. For a minute she thought it might belong to a customer at the beauty shop next door, then Jeff took a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the passenger door.
“This is your car?” She felt a twinge of disappointment. She’d expected something with a little class: a Jaguar, maybe, or a BMW.
He opened the door. “Yeah, this is Old Faithful. I’ve had her since college.” He patted the roof. “Wouldn’t part with her for love or money.”
She slid into the passenger seat and watched him circle the car to get in on the driver’s side. He pushed the key into the ignition and started the engine, which rattled a loud complaint, before he pulled out into the street.
“I have to admit, I was surprised to hear from you,” he said. “I thought you were giving me the brush-off this morning.”
Chelsea tried a light laugh, but it came out as more of a whine. She was distinctly uncomfortable, growing more so by the minute. Jeff had yet to even smile at her. She wondered, with a little tickle of fear, if he was the kind of man who punished women who rebuffed him. She’d heard of men like that, psychopathic types who took all their frustrations out on females.
“I guess the idea of going to the beach sounded better and better to me the more I thought about it,” she said carefully. “I hope you weren’t offended by my behavior at the house.”
He shook his head. “Not offended. Intrigued. I can’t quite figure you out.”
“Well, that’s not too surprising. We only met a couple of hours ago.”
“I’m pretty good at judging people. My first impressions are nearly always right.”
She tried another laugh. “So I guess I’m supposed to ask what your first impression was.”
“I didn’t say I revealed my first impression.” Finally, she caught the ghost of a smile. “That would be irresponsible. ‘What we have to do is be forever curiously testing new opinions and courting new impressions.’ ”
“That sounds like a quote.”
“It is. Walter Pater.”
“You memorize that kind of stuff?”
“I’m afraid reading poetry and philosophy is one of my weaknesses. It’s an addiction. I really can’t help myself.” He
glanced at her again and his smile broadened.
Chelsea smiled back at him. He was starting to loosen up. Now she just had to figure out a way to bring up the subject of Muriel Winter again so she could convince him that she’d been joking that morning. She studied the chiseled line of his jaw as he watched the road ahead. He didn’t look anything like Brandon, who was shorter and less muscular, with thick blond hair. Their personalities weren’t alike either. Brandon was outgoing and hearty, with the kind of carefree attitude that made him easy to talk to. Jeff was friendly enough, but there was something mysterious about him, a hint of remoteness that made her think he might be hiding a secret. You’d never guess they were brothers. Half brothers, she corrected herself.
“So what’s your passion?” Jeff asked, jolting her out of her thoughts. “What do you do in your free time?”
“Free time? I don’t usually have any to spare.” She thought suddenly of Chelsea’s Choice. “Actually, my favorite thing is to spend a whole day out on the water.”
He slowed to turn left. “You sail.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No. I usually go out in my friend’s lobster boat. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve never actually set foot on a sailboat.”
She half expected him to make some comment on this deprivation, or at least to invite her out on the family yacht, but he didn’t say anything. Then she remembered, with a little ripple of resentment, that he still thought she believed he was the gardener. Apparently he was content to keep up the pretense, and he wasn’t going to tell her his real identity. Maybe he liked slumming. He obviously had a little thing going with Beth Harmon. She wondered if his mother knew about his habits. Her mouth shaped itself into a wry smile. Muriel would undoubtedly have a fit if she knew he was involved with an employee.
She could see the brown and white beach entrance sign up ahead. Jeff slowed the car, which gave a couple of loud clanks from deep within its engine as he stopped in front of the ticket booth. He pulled a five dollar bill out of his shorts pocket and handed it to the attendant, who gave him a pair of orange tickets.
Strawberry Lace Page 3
