Strawberry Lace

by Amy Belding Brown

  He wrapped her in a blanket which she vaguely recognized as the one he’d spread earlier on the sand. She knew he was talking to her, but her brain was still numb, her head throbbing with pain, and she couldn’t make out what he was saying. He pushed her down into the bottom of the boat, turning her on her side so she could cough out the remaining seawater in her frozen lungs. He bent over her, frowning, examining her head where the pain was centered, probing her scalp with his fingers. When she winced and cried out, he drew his hand away. She was stunned to see that his fingers were stained with blood.

  He scrambled into the stern and turned his attention to the outboard motor there, steering quickly away from the treacherous riptide. A moment later Chelsea started shivering. Her teeth chattered violently; her body rocked in spasms. She watched Jeff in a kind of dazed stupor.

  He kept one eye on her and one on the water ahead. But it wasn’t until they had rounded the island that he spoke. “Looks like you hit a rock when you went under. Are you dizzy?”

  “A little.” She reached to feel the throbbing lump on her head and winced sharply.

  “Don’t touch it!” he commanded. “And don’t close your eyes. Keep them focused on me. You’re going to be all right, but it was a close call. It’s a good thing I figured out where you were and had the sense to go after a boat when I did.”

  She spoke around her chattering teeth. “Thank you. I was so . . . so . . . scared.”

  He nodded perfunctorily. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  “No!” She coughed and tried to sit up. “You don’t need to. I’m fine.”

  He pushed her back down. “You’ve just experienced major head trauma. And you may be suffering from shock. You need to be examined.”

  “No.” Numb as her brain was, she knew she had to prevent him from taking her to the hospital. “I can’t go to the hospital.”

  “Of course you can. You have to.”

  “No. Really. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked away from him. How could she tell him, this man who probably had millions at his disposal, that she had no medical insurance? That she couldn’t afford even emergency room service? Strawberry Lace was a shoestring business, a hand-to-mouth operation. Someday, she and Lori had promised each other, they’d have enough to buy health insurance. But that day hadn’t arrived.

  “Have you had a bad experience in a hospital or something?” He was watching her curiously, waiting for an answer.

  “Not exactly. It’s something I’d rather not talk about.” She tried to smile. Her mouth felt stiff from cold. “Please, I’m fine. Honestly. Can’t we just leave it at that?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “You’re going to have to. I’m not going to a hospital. Or anyplace else but home. I told you, I’m fine.”

  “You’re a pretty stubborn woman, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been called worse.” She glanced back at the island and the water roiling over the sandbar. “I prefer to say I’m determined.”

  He laughed. “All right, Chelsea, I’ll forgo the hospital, as long as you let me fix you some hot soup and tuck you into a nice warm bed after I take you home.”

  She shivered again and hugged the blanket closer around her. “It’s a deal.”

  She hadn’t realized it would be quite so unsettling, having Jeff Blaine in her apartment. He took charge the minute she unlocked the door, holding her by the elbow and steering her through the living room and into her bedroom as if he knew the layout of the place.

  He flicked on the overhead light. “I want to take a good look at that wound.”

  “Ouch!” she cried as his fingers explored her injured scalp.

  He finally released her. “I think it’ll be okay. Make sure you wash it gently and thoroughly.”

  “Of course! What kind of an idiot do you think I am?”

  He ignored her indignant glare. “You get out of that wet suit and take a hot shower. Then we’ll have dinner.”

  Before she could protest, he had left the room, closing the door behind him. She sighed and slumped onto her bed. She knew he was right. All she wanted was to get warm and dry. She shrugged off the blanket, stripped off her bathing suit and glanced briefly in the long mirror on her closet door. Her skin was peppered with goose bumps and her lips had a dark blue cast. Her hair hung in damp, clotted ropes over her shoulders. One of the strands was stained with blood. Her makeup had washed off and her nose had reddened unattractively in the cold water. She looked like a half-drowned cat.

  She wondered what Jeff Blaine thought of her now. He was probably thoroughly disgusted. Apparently he’d decided to cloak his feelings so that he could continue stringing her along, letting her believe he was Muriel Winter’s gardener. She opened her closet and took out her bathrobe. It had belonged to her father and was the only one she had, a blue terry-cloth one, worn through at the elbows. She wished now that she’d splurged the last time she was at the mall and bought herself that teal-blue velour robe she’d had her eye on. It was one of her best colors; it brought out the green tint in her eyes and heightened the natural pink of her cheeks. But it had been expensive—almost seventy dollars—and seemed an unnecessary luxury at the time.

  She sighed, slipped into the robe and opened the bedroom door. She was relieved to hear the rattle of pots; Jeff was in the kitchen. She could sneak through the living room to the bathroom while he was busy.

  She was almost to the bathroom door when she heard his chuckle. She turned to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, his hands braced lazily on the frame, grinning at her.

  “Where’d you get that thing?” He nodded at her robe. “It looks like it belonged to your grandfather.”

  She didn’t reward him with a reply, just went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  “Hey, take it easy. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  She clamped her mouth shut and took’ off the robe, hung it on the hook on the back of the door. She saw that Jeff had already filled the tub with water. She leaned down and tested it with her wrist. Nice and hot; just the way she liked it.

  Then she heard him laugh again and realized he was still standing outside the door. “Is it your grandfather’s?”

  “No!” If the door hadn’t been between them, she’d have picked up the air freshener bottle and thrown it at him. “Do you mind if I take my bath in peace?”

  “Sorry. Just teasing. One of my many failings, I’m afraid. I’ll go finish dinner.” She heard his footsteps moving away from the door, but it took her several minutes before she could relax enough to lower herself into the hot tub.

  An hour later, Chelsea was sitting across from Jeff at her kitchen table, dipping her spoon into a bowl of vegetable soup and inhaling the mouth-watering aroma of fresh-baked bran muffins. She was wearing her jeans and her green fleece shirt. In spite of her bath, she still felt chilled.

  “Where did you get the muffin recipe?” she asked, her eyes wide with astonishment after she took her first bite.

  “Family secret.”

  “It’s delicious!” She took another bite. Was it because she was so hungry, or because she’d almost drowned? Everything tasted fantastic. She had to get the recipe out of him somehow. “Could I persuade you to share it?”

  “Afraid not. It’s my mother’s recipe. She makes them every Sunday morning.”

  Chelsea almost choked. “Your mother?” She couldn’t imagine Muriel Winter lifting a finger in the kitchen, let alone mixing up these delectable muffins.

  “Yes, my mother. What’s so strange about that?”

  Now it was her turn to grin. “It’s just that . . .” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine your mother cooking anything.”

  His eyes narrowed and she realized she’d blown it. So much for letting him believe she thought he was the gardener. She wanted to kick herself. After all her careful plans about how to make Jeff think she admired Muriel Winter, she’d gone and run off a
t the mouth. She could almost hear Lori chastising her.

  “Why can’t you imagine my mother cooking? What do you know about my mother?”

  She put down her muffin, placed both hands on the table. She tried not to smile. “All right, I have to confess I know who you are. Beth told me.”

  “Oh? And what did she tell you?”

  “That you’re not the gardener. You’re Muriel Winter’s son.”

  “What does that have to do with her cooking?” He leaned back in his chair and laced his arms across his chest. She couldn’t read his face, didn’t know if he was angry or amused.

  “Nothing, except that I can’t imagine Muriel Winter baking muffins. Ever.” She grinned again. Just the thought made her want to laugh out loud.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, she’s just . . . she’s so . . .” Chelsea slid her hands off the table, dropped them into her lap. “She doesn’t seem like the type, that’s all.”

  “Exactly what type do you think she is?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that she strikes me as the kind of person who wouldn’t . . .” She groped for words, for some way to phrase her thoughts delicately. “Well, you know, someone who’s so . . .”

  “So rich she wouldn’t get her hands dirty, is that it?”

  She flushed. “I wasn’t going to put it that way.”

  “But that’s what you meant, isn’t it?” He pushed his chair back.

  “Look, I’m sorry. Honestly.” She tried to soften his glare with a smile, but his expression didn’t change. “I like your mother. She’s a very . . .” She searched for a word. “. . . an elegant woman, with a lot of class.”

  “Didn’t you tell me earlier that she caused your friend’s broken heart?”

  “Yes, but that was ages ago, and anyway, it was Brandon—”

  “My brother.” He nodded. His jaw looked very hard. “Why don’t you just be honest, Chelsea? You don’t like my mother at all. You as much as told me so, back at the house.”

  “That isn’t what I said!” Her alarm turned to anger. “Anyway, I didn’t know who you were. I thought you were the gardener!”

  “So you said.”

  “And you didn’t correct me! You let me go on believing you were an employee! You let—no, you encouraged—me to make a fool of myself!”

  “You didn’t need any help.”

  She shoved her chair violently away from the table and stood up. “I think you’d better leave.”

  He got to his feet. “That’s a good idea.” He gave her one last, blazing scowl, turned on his heel and headed for the door.

  He was reaching for the doorknob when panic flooded her. She ran after him. “You’re not going to tell her what I said, are you?”

  He turned and regarded her coldly.

  “Please, Jeff, give me a break. I really need this job.” She felt horrible. She’d never begged anybody for anything in her life. Yet now she was begging this man, and all because she hadn’t been able to control her big mouth.

  “I’ll think about it.” He wasn’t going to give her any promises, that was obvious. She’d just have to hope that he would keep his mouth shut.

  She let her arms drop limply to her sides as he opened the door. “Thanks for saving me,” she said despondently.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “It was my pleasure.” His expression was unreadable; she didn’t know if he was mocking her or if there was a grain of sincerity behind his words. “Don’t forget the meeting with my mother. Ten o’clock sharp.”

  Then he was gone, hurrying down the narrow wooden stairs to the street without a backward look.

  Chelsea stood staring after him. She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach. It was a long time before she turned and went back into her apartment.

  Chelsea knew she’d have to tell Lori; she couldn’t sweep something like this under the rug. Chances were that Muriel Winter’s ten o’clock meeting would be a painful reprimand and a summary cancellation of the contract. She’d have to prepare her sister for what was coming.

  But it was Stuart she called first, spending over an hour spilling her tale of woe into his patient silence, knowing that, of all her friends and family, only Stuart could really understand the agony she’d been through.

  He was earnestly sympathetic. “Sounds like you’ve earned a trip out to Eagle Island. How about tomorrow after I’m done hauling?”

  “I’d love to, but I have that college graduation party. Could we do it Thursday instead?”

  “Sure can.” His tone changed to concern. “I don’t like the sound of your head injury, Chels. Maybe you shouldn’t be alone tonight. Want me to come over?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got hours of baking ahead of me, and you’d only be in the way. No offense.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. I know how you get when you’re cooking. It’s safer if I keep my distance. But listen, call me tomorrow and let me know how you are.”

  “Of course. When was the last day we didn’t talk to each other at least once?”

  She felt better after her conversation with Stuart, but she knew she’d still have to call Lori, or her conscience would bother her all night. After she’d mixed up the cake batter, poured it into the big baking sheets, and slid them into the ovens, she worked up the courage to pick up the phone.

  She made light of her adventure at the beach, and concentrated on the problem of Muriel. Lori sounded disappointed but typically optimistic. “You don’t know for sure that’s what she’s going to say. Maybe Jeff didn’t tell her anything.”

  “If he didn’t before, he probably has by now. I got in an argument with him before he left.”

  “Oh God. Chelsea, how could you?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. Maybe I was still in shock from my narrow escape. What can I say? I’m sorry, sis.”

  Lori sighed. “Well, it’s water under the bridge at this point. I’m glad you’re safe and sound. Would you like me to come with you tomorrow morning for moral support?”

  “I don’t know. Jeff said something about Muriel wanting to talk to me privately. If she is going to bawl me out, I guess I’d rather there weren’t any witnesses.”

  Lori murmured her agreement. “You want some help with the petits fours tonight? I could come over for about an hour.”

  “No thanks, I’ve got everything under control. Say hi to Paul for me.”

  “Will do.”

  Chelsea hung up slowly. The sad, empty feeling inside her chest wouldn’t go away. She looked around at the big shop kitchen. She’d spent so many hours here, creating culinary works of art. She loved Strawberry Lace and everything about it. She couldn’t bear the thought of going out of business. Especially because of her own stupidity.

  She wiped away a tear and straightened her shoulders. There wasn’t any point in moping around. She had to do what she had to do, and tonight that meant creating 112 petits fours for tomorrow’s college graduation party at the Cumberland Country Club.

  It was almost nine when Chelsea woke the next morning. She took one look at the clock, gasped and stumbled out of bed to the bathroom, her eyes still blurry with sleep. In the shower, she tried to make herself wake up, but the more awake she became, the more tension gripped her at the thought of what lay ahead. She had hoped that a good night’s sleep would refresh her enough to help her envision the interview with Muriel Winter in a positive light. But it hadn’t worked; it hadn’t even been a good night’s sleep. She’d tossed and turned, pestered by dreams of water and wild roses and long sand beaches, along which Jeff Blaine strolled with a look of serene composure.

  She skipped breakfast, dressed in her tailored beige suit and her pearls, then discarded it for the safety of her signature Strawberry Lace outfit. By nine-thirty she was headed up Route 1, mentally rehearsing the coming events of the day. The plans were to meet Lori at the country club at noon, where they would do the on-site preparations. The party was scheduled for seven.

  She
arrived at the Winter estate just a few minutes before ten, and took the van dutifully around to the service entrance. She prayed, as she walked across the courtyard to the door, that it wouldn’t be Jeff who answered her ring this time. She wasn’t up to facing him this morning.

  She was relieved when Beth opened the door. “Hi, Chelsea! What can I do for you?”

  “I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mrs. Winter.”

  She frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “That’s odd. Nothing was said to me. Well, come on in.” Beth ushered Chelsea into the entryway and asked her to wait, then disappeared through a paneled door. When she returned, several minutes later, she looked troubled.

  “Mrs. Winter is busy at the moment, but you could wait for her if you like.”

  “It was Mrs. Winter who scheduled the appointment. I assumed that she’d be waiting for me.”

  Beth smiled wanly. “Why don’t you wait in the library?” She led Chelsea up the stairs, down a long hall, and into a dark-paneled room.

  “How long will she be?” Chelsea tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. She was angry, growing more furious by the minute, at the way she was being treated, no doubt at Muriel’s orders.

  “I’m sorry. I have no idea. Please, make yourself comfortable.” Beth nodded briefly toward one of the leather easy chairs and withdrew, closing the door behind her. Chelsea glanced at the elegant antique vase that decorated the central table. She had half a mind to pick it up and smash it against the floor. Or maybe throw it through the long stained-glass window over the couch. How long did Muriel Winter intend to keep her waiting? Didn’t the woman know that she had to work for a living, or did her pretentious arrogance protect her from all knowledge of the real world?

  Chelsea paced back and forth in front of the long table. Around her the dark oak bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with leather-bound volumes. They looked like collectors’ items and classics; she reflected sourly that they’d probably never been read. They looked supremely boring anyhow. She went over and fingered a tooled leather spine that had been stamped with gold letters. JANE EYRE. It was one of her favorites. She remembered reading it twice the year she was sixteen. There was something about the tenacious, patient Jane and her romance with the wealthy Mr. Rochester that had always enthralled and fascinated her.