“It’s very noble of you to want to keep your promise. But the harm is she’ll stalk you like prey.”
His eyebrows lifted as he gave her an incredulous look. “It’s that bad?”
“It’s worse than you could ever imagine,” Morgan whispered, watching Trina’s approach.
Nate closed his eyes. “The beautification ladies warned me she was looking for a husband, but that was only after I’d agreed to dance with her.”
“Do you want me to run interference for you?” she repeated.
“Yes, please.”
“Work with me,” Morgan whispered again.
His hand moved up and he put his arm around Morgan’s waist. “Thank you.”
She affected a warm smile when Trina sidled up to Nate, false eyelashes fluttering, reminding Morgan of the handheld fans of churchgoers during Sunday service. Some unsuspecting men found it hard to resist Trina’s seductive wiles until it was too late. Like the late Liz Taylor, the beguiling woman collected husbands. She’d been labeled a black widow, yet instead of killing off her mates she traded them in for new ones whenever she grew bored with them. Several men had had to take out restraining orders to keep her from coming within one hundred feet of their homes.
Trina flashed Nate her most seductive grin as she looped her arm through his. “I thought we could dance now that everyone’s eating. Hi,” she said, nodding at Morgan as if she were an afterthought.
Affecting a frown, Morgan’s eyes shifted between Nate and Trina. “You’re dancing with her after you told me you didn’t want to dance?”
Nate lifted broad shoulders under his shirt. “Look, baby—”
Bracing a hand on his chest, Morgan pushed Nate away. “Don’t you dare baby me, Nathaniel Shaw. Tell me now. Are you my man?”
“You know I’m yours, baby,” he crooned, then dipped his head and brushed his mouth over hers.
Trina’s eyes grew wider. “You’re with Mo?”
Nate nodded, smiling. “Yep.”
A disappointed scowl distorted Trina’s pretty face. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Morgan’s arm went around Nate’s waist. “We decided we didn’t want to go public with our relationship for a couple of months. I suppose the cat’s out of the bag now.”
“I won’t say anything if you want to keep things on the down low,” Trina whispered conspiratorially.
“Thank you,” Morgan and Nate chorused. Both exhaled an audible sigh when Trina turned on her heels and walked away.
“I owe you, Mo.”
She gave Nate a long, penetrating stare. “Yep, you sure do.”
“I’m sorry, but I hadn’t realized Trina had changed that much when I told her I would dance with her. And you’re right. I have been away too long and I definitely don’t get out enough. I had no idea she was looking for a husband. Maybe I should take Jesse up on his offer to come to the Happy Hour.”
“The ladies at the club would love you,” Morgan said teasingly. “You’re single, educated, and don’t have any children. They’d be on you like white on rice.”
“Not if you come with me.”
Morgan shook her head. “Nope—I already bailed you out once. Now you’re on your own.” She knew if he’d asked her years ago she would’ve said yes.
“Please come with me just this one time. As a friend?”
She moved to one side to let a boy carrying a plate piled high with catfish fritters pass. “I can’t, Nate. I’m too busy with my project to go clubbing.”
“What if I tell you yes?”
Morgan held her breath. When she’d created the list of artisans she would approach for her project, she knew she wanted Shaw Woodworking at the top of the list. Their reputation for crafting some of the finest pieces of furniture in the Lowcountry was legendary throughout the region. The Shaws’ carpentry skills had been passed down through the generations, and when she researched the architectural plans of many of the homes built on Cavanaugh Island the names of Nate’s ancestors appeared on documents dating back to the mid–eighteenth century. It had been a Shaw who’d laid the parquet floors at Angels Landing, not only when it was first built in 1830 but also following the Civil War, when a fire had destroyed most of the rooms on the first floor.
“I don’t want you to agree to sign on to the project out of gratitude. Maybe after you see the rendering you’ll know whether you have the time to devote to the work. This commission is too important to me to accept a commitment of less than one hundred percent. There are folks waiting for me to mess up. I refuse to let that happen.”
“Auntie Mo,” chimed a childlike voice.
Morgan glanced down at her five-year-old niece tugging on the hem of her dress. There were traces of a red substance on her chubby cheeks, and wisps of hair that had escaped the sandy-brown plaits falling to her shoulders were curling around her cherubic face. Bending slightly, Morgan picked up the child, who hugged her tightly around the neck.
“Auntie Mo, Mama wants you to sit with us.” Her gaze shifted to Nate.
She dropped a kiss on the little girl’s hair. “Amanda, this is my friend Mr. Nate,” Morgan said when Amanda continued to stare at him.
Nate smiled. “Hello, Amanda.”
Amanda hugged her aunt tighter. “My daddy says I can’t talk to strangers.”
“Your daddy’s right. You shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
Amanda rested her head on Morgan’s shoulder. “I talk to my friends in school.”
Nate’s eyes met Morgan’s when he said, “That’s a good girl. Mo, go sit with your family while I try and find my folks.”
“As soon as I put this little munchkin down I’m going to get something to eat. And don’t forget to save a dance for me, baby,” she drawled, her voice lowering to a seductive timbre. Nate’s laugher followed her as she carried Amanda to the table where the Danes had managed to find a place to sit together. Amanda wiggled to get down, running and climbing onto her father’s lap.
Shrugging off her purse, Morgan placed it on the table next to Rachel. “I’m going to get something to eat.”
Rachel stood up. “I’m going with you.”
It didn’t take Morgan long to discover why her sister, who’d had a full plate of food at her place setting, wanted to come along. She asked, “What’s up with you and Nate?”
Rachel had asked the question that probably hundreds of others under the tent also wanted to know. Morgan’s impassive expression did not change. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
Rachel frowned and rested a hand over her swollen belly. She had resigned her position as a forensic technician with the Charleston police department to become a stay-at-home mother now that she was expecting her second child. The epitome of high-maintenance, she was as beautifully turned out as a model on the catwalk even though she was three weeks from her due date. She wore a deep rose-pink linen tunic over a pair of black slacks in the same fabric.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
Morgan inched along the buffet line, picking up a plate, silverware, and a napkin. “Your face is an open book, Sis. You want to know what Nate and I were talking about.”
Rachel grinned mischievously. “You know I’ll haunt you if you don’t tell me.”
“We talked business.”
“That’s it?”
Morgan extended her plate to the server for a spoonful of red rice with sausage. She gave her sister a sidelong glance. She’d always felt closer to Rachel than to her oldest sister. Firstborn Irene was fiercely independent and solitary. No one was more surprised than Morgan when Irene announced she was getting married. And the man she’d chosen as her husband was a single father who’d adopted his twin nephews after his sister died in a traffic accident. Eight years ago Irene and her Charleston County chief medical examiner husband had a son, adding a third boy to their mixed-race blended family.
“What? Did you want me to say that Nate and I are hooking up?”
Rachel flashed a Ches
hire cat grin. “That would be nice,” she said, then sobered quickly. “Folks have been talking about you and David, but I think Nate would be a better match.”
“I don’t have time for a relationship.”
“When are you going to make time, Mo? You’ll be thirty-three in two months and your biological clock is ticking.”
“I’ll have the smothered cabbage,” Morgan said to another server. “I don’t need kids when I have Rasputin.”
“He’s a freaking cat!” Rachel shouted, garnering the attention of those close enough to have overheard her outburst.
“A cat that’s loyal and doesn’t give me grief,” Morgan countered. “He doesn’t ask where I’ve been, who I’ve been with, or when I’m coming home. I feed him, give him fresh water, change his litter box, and he’s content to sit in the sun or snuggle with me on the porch.”
“A cat is not a man, Mo,” Rachel hissed. “Mama and Daddy should’ve never named you after Grandpa, because you’re just like him. You living in his house doesn’t help. After Grandmomma died he withdrew into his own world, walking around and taking pictures of people and old houses. You’re no different except you prowl around musty-smelling old homes looking for antiques and heirloom pieces. Grandpa could’ve remarried, but he chose to be alone. Think about it, Mo. Do you want to end up an old woman in a house filled with cats?”
Clamping her jaw tightly, Morgan decided it was best to ignore her sister’s rant rather than get into a heated discussion about her single status. Her family refused to accept that it was her choice not to become involved with a man. And it wasn’t that men hadn’t asked her out. She didn’t have the energy to devote to a relationship—at least not at this time in her life. Once she was able to get the restoration up and running, then she would consider dating.
Her Russian Blue kitten wasn’t human, yet he provided her with the companionship she needed. The feline was always there for her; he didn’t talk back, and she used him as her sounding board whenever she launched into a lengthy monologue to air her ideas. No, the kitten wasn’t a man, but somehow he fit quite nicely into her present lifestyle.
Morgan also didn’t want to think about Nate because then she would be forced to revisit her past, when she woke thinking about him and went to sleep longing for him. She didn’t know where she’d found the strength not to react like a quaking virgin when he’d held her hand, placed his arm around her waist, or kissed her. What she did acknowledge was that too much time had passed, and not only had she changed but Nate had also. A wry smile twisted Morgan’s mouth as she moved along the buffet table. He’d asked her to go with him to her cousin’s club and she’d turned him down. Not because she wanted to, but because she had to.
Think with your head and not your heart. Love with your heart and not your head.
It was as if she could hear her grandfather and namesake whispering to her. She hadn’t come this far, sacrificed a love life to advance her career, to let her heart overrule her head.
Chapter Four
Morgan sat on the porch swing, one bare foot tucked under her body and the toes of her other foot pressed to the pale jade-colored floor as she swung slowly back and forth. The late afternoon sun cast long and short shadows over the landscape, turning it into an emerald forest. She smiled. Spring was her favorite season on the island. Flowers were in full bloom, afternoon temperatures peaked in the low eighties, and nighttime temperatures hovered in the low sixties, making it possible to sleep with the windows open.
Her beloved grandfather had willed her the house where her father and uncle had grown up. Even before she’d moved in, she drew up plans to update the interior and expand the rear of the house to include a solarium, an in-home office, and a spacious storage area.
Rachel had scolded her about spending too much time at home, but it was here that she was able to kick back and relax. It was where her creativity flourished whenever she had to design living spaces for a client. It was also where she went online to research historic properties and the complex contemporary and historical relationship between black and white Lowcountry families and their connections to the past.
Morgan wanted to stay longer at the reception, but after she’d returned to the table with her food she’d encountered questioning gazes from her family. She knew they wanted to know where she’d gone with Nate and what they’d talked about. The situation had become so uncomfortable that she decided to end the impasse. She kissed her mother with a promise to see her the following day, sought out the newlyweds, gave them an envelope containing a check payable to one of their designated charities, and left. Rasputin was waiting for her when she opened the door, the tiny blue cat winding its lithe body around her ankle, the sounds coming from him indicating he was glad to see her.
Morgan cleansed her face of makeup and then stepped into the shower stall. Twenty minutes later, dressed in shorts and a tank top, she’d retreated to the porch to unwind, her silver-blue feline companion asleep next to her.
Exhaling an audible sigh, she closed her eyes and let her senses take over. She inhaled the sweet scent of blooming flowers mingling with the smell of salt water; detected the buzzing of insects, and savored the warm breeze sweeping over her exposed skin. Morgan opened her eyes, smiling. Living on Cavanaugh Island, and in the Creek in particular, afforded her a sense of peace she hadn’t been able to grasp in all her travels. The house and the land on which it sat represented her past, her present, and, she hoped, her future.
The sound of an approaching car’s engine made her sit up straight. Rasputin also stirred, opening his emerald-green eyes. “Don’t move, baby boy,” she cautioned him when he stood up and jumped off the swing, landing silently on the porch floor.
Coming to her feet, Morgan walked over and opened the front door and the cat scooted inside. Although her pet was playful, he tended to be skittish around strangers. Making her way to the steps, she leaned against a white column, waving to Francine as she maneuvered her shiny red Corvette into the driveway and parked behind the Cadillac.
“I thought you would still be at the reception,” she said to her friend when she mounted the stairs.
“I stayed long enough to feed my face. I’ll go back later, when the crowd thins out. I asked your mother where you were and she told me you’d probably gone home.” Francine removed her sunglasses, perching them atop her head. “She said either you had an attitude about something or you weren’t feeling well.”
Morgan bit down on her lip. “It was none of the above.”
The redhead flopped down on an Adirondack rocker with a green-and-white seat cushion, her luminous eyes meeting and fusing with Morgan’s. “It’s about Nate, isn’t it?”
“I guess you heard.”
Francine emitted a delicate snort. “Miss Hannah asked me about you two. I guess because we’re friends she thought I’d spill my guts.”
Hannah Forsyth was Sanctuary Cove’s head librarian as well as the island’s official historian. Many kids described Hannah as the lady with the cotton candy hair because of its Champagne-pink color. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about. This, by the way, is the truth.”
Morgan returned to the swing and sat. The seconds ticked as she rocked. “I asked Nate if Shaw Woodworking would sign on to the restoration project.”
Francine gave her a questioning look. “What did he say?”
“He says he’ll have to talk it over with his father and brother before giving me an answer.”
“What else?”
Morgan knew if she didn’t tell Francine about what had happened, then her friend was certain to hear a version that wouldn’t come remotely close to the truth. She told her about the beautification committee members’ matchmaking attempt on Nate’s behalf, his promise to dance with Trina, and her stepping in to thwart Trina’s seduction.
Francine brought up her hand to stifle her giggles. “I wish I could’ve been there to see Trina’s face when yo
u told her that you and Nate were going together.”
“She seemed to have taken it well.”
An expression of seriousness replaced amusement when Francine said, “What’s going to happen once word gets out that you and Nate are a couple?”
“We’re not a couple.”
“Didn’t you just tell me he wants you to go with him to Happy Hour?”
“Yes, but—”
“Get real, Mo,” Francine said, interrupting her. “If the man’s asking you out, then there’s something about you he likes. And I shouldn’t have to tell you that he’s been MIA since he came back to the Creek. Not a day goes by in the Beauty Box that his name doesn’t come up in conversation. All someone has to do is say ‘Nate’ and it’s on like popcorn. Even the women who don’t live in the Creek admit to driving by his place just to see him on the roof of the barn wearing nothing more than a baseball cap, cutoffs, and construction boots.”
“He’s definitely eye candy,” Morgan admitted.
“He’s more than eye candy. He’s young, single, and loaded.”
Morgan stopped swinging. “I’d read that he declined his share of community property under California’s divorce laws.”
Crossing her sandaled feet at the ankles, Francine combed her fingers through her hair. “Working at a beauty salon has its advantages if you want to know what’s happening in other people’s lives. Someone asked Sharon if Nate planned to stay in the Creek, and she said yes because he’d sold a string of self-storage facilities in Los Angeles and San Diego. She also said that Nate and his wife had a prenuptial agreement providing that whatever they’d acquired before and during their marriage was exempt from community property.”
“So that proves he didn’t marry his supermodel wife for her money.”
“And that means he’s not a parasite. That’s more than I can say about some of the men I’ve dealt with since my divorce,” Francine spat out.
Haven Creek Page 5
