“I wish he would’ve been the one to straighten Bryce out. It’s different when someone you know is breathing down your neck twenty-four seven.”
Morgan stared out the windshield as Nate accelerated along the narrow road leading back to her house. “How’s he doing?”
“So far, so good. He’s working with me now. Bryce is truly gifted. Unlike Dad and me, who usually sketch our patterns before we begin carving, Bryce will pick up a wood chisel and start right in. Right now we’re working on the doors to a replica of an eighteenth-century French armoire.”
“I would love to see it!” Morgan couldn’t hide her excitement. It wasn’t often she got to see handcrafted pieces before they were finished.
Nate gave her a quick glance. “When?”
“Now?”
“Baby, the place is full of dust and I wouldn’t want you to ruin your dress and shoes.”
Morgan placed her hand over Nate’s as he gripped the steering wheel. She wondered if his calling her baby was said unconsciously or whether it was deliberate. “Then when can I see it?”
“What about early Sunday morning?”
She grimaced. “I usually go to early service on Sunday, and it’s also my turn to host Sunday dinner. My mother and sisters rotate preparing dinner and I’m usually the second Sunday in the month.” Morgan pursed her lips. “I just thought of something.”
Nate maneuvered into the driveway to Morgan’s house, stopping under the carport. “What is it?”
“Come and eat with us. That is, if you don’t have prior plans. Then after dinner I can change—”
“I promised Dad I would see him Sunday,” Nate said, cutting her off. “But there’s no reason why we can’t get together later in the evening.”
Morgan nodded. “We’re usually finished around seven. Is that too late?”
Reaching over, Nate’s forefinger grazed the short curls on the nape of her neck. “No, it’s not too late.”
Unbuckling her seat belt, Morgan leaned to her left and kissed his smooth cheek. “Thanks for tonight. I really enjoyed myself.”
“Same here.” Nate caught her chin, angled his head, and touched his mouth to hers. “I’ll walk you to your door.”
There was no passion in the kiss, but the joining was enough to remind her of long-forgotten desire. “That’s okay.”
Nate was already getting out and coming around to assist her. Resting a hand at the small of her back, he walked her to the door. Morgan unlocked it, and as if on cue Rasputin sat there waiting for her.
Bending slightly, Nate scooped up the cat. “Hey, Blue. What’s up? Are you ready to meet your girlfriend? She’s a little older than you, but cougars are in vogue and no one will care if you sleep with an older queen.”
Morgan tried not to smile. “Go home, Nate, and stop trying to turn my cat into some kind of feline stud.”
He handed Morgan her pet. “You may not have a say once he meets Patches.”
Her dimples winked at him when she smiled. “Good night, friend.”
His warm smile matched hers. “Good night.”
Morgan waited until the sound of the engine faded before closing and locking the door. She didn’t know what to make of the time they’d spent together. It was as if Nate were saying, “Come to me,” and when she did he would put up a barrier telling her to go away. He’d professed to want friendship, but then it seemed as if he wanted more than that when he complained about Dylan kissing her.
Although Morgan hadn’t wanted a relationship in the past, she could see herself having one with Nate, which frightened her because none of her previous relationships had worked. It couldn’t be a friends-with-benefits relationship, because she’d harbored feelings for Nate for far too long. It had to be all or nothing for Morgan, and since Nate told her he had no interest in getting remarried, she didn’t want to waste her time or get hurt.
Think with your head and not your heart. Never were her grandfather’s words more prophetic than now, when her teenage wish had come true. Morgan’s eyelids fluttered wildly as she attempted to blink back tears. Heaviness settled in her chest, making breathing difficult. She realized life had thrown her a wicked curve. The adage “Be careful what you wish for” was standing on her chest and staring her in the face.
Nate tossed restlessly on the bed. Before leaving the house he’d closed all the windows, and the buildup of heat was smothering. Tossing back the sheet, he reached up and touched the light switch, turning on the ceiling fan. The blades rotated slowly until they reached maximum speed, dispelling some of the hot air. He’d tried sleeping, but his mind was a jumble of confusing thoughts that had everything to do with Morgan.
He didn’t understand why he’d disclosed things to her he hadn’t told anyone else. Nate knew his father resented his sister-in-law, blaming Lizzie for seducing his twin brother, who had walked away from the family business to follow her to California. And when Nate announced he was going to San Diego to live with his widowed aunt while attending college, for Lucas, it’d been history repeating itself. His late brother’s widow had worked her wiles again. This time she’d lured his son three thousand miles away instead of encouraging him to attend a local college, as Lucas had wanted him to.
Nate hadn’t told his father that he was not only running away but also looking for someone to replace his mother, and that someone wasn’t Odessa. Lizzie offered Nate the emotional stability he needed to accept his mother’s untimely death as well as Lucas and Odessa’s deception and the anxiety of being separated from Sharon and Bryce.
Nate had studied Morgan’s expression when he’d talked about his aunt and uncle. Not only had she hung onto every word, she had also empathized with him when he’d mentioned Lizzie’s declining health and death. The one time he’d attempted to tell Kim about his aunt, she said she didn’t want to hear about dead people.
Nate knew he’d overreacted when he saw Dylan and Morgan hugging and kissing. The encounter was a blatant reminder of the times he’d witnessed his ex-wife hugging and kissing men, men she’d subsequently admitted to sleeping with.
Closing his eyes, he ran a hand over his face. Nate had to remember his reason for coming back to Haven Creek. It wasn’t to become involved with a woman—even one as beautiful and intelligent as Morgan. It was to pick up the pieces of his life and reconnect with his family.
She’d talked about staying focused, but that wasn’t easy for him. When it came to the family business, he had tunnel vision. However, it was becoming more and more difficult to live in virtual isolation. His interaction was limited to his family: Lucas, Odessa, Bryce, Sharon, Webb—his federal air marshal brother-in-law—Gabrielle, and Gregory. Going to the Happy Hour, talking and dancing with Morgan, was a nagging reminder that he was too young to spend the rest of his life cut off from the world.
Nate felt comfortable enough with Morgan that he could be himself. There wasn’t a need to try to impress her. She was a good listener, something he’d found lacking in some of the women he’d become involved with. She asked questions, and he hadn’t hesitated when answering them.
It was apparent that neither wanted a relationship. He was committed to Shaw & Sons, and she to M. Dane Architecture and Interior Design.
Turning on his side, he closed his eyes. Minutes later he fell into the comforting arms of Morpheus, then slept soundly until Patches jumped on the bed and lay across his chest. He opened one eye, then the other. The cat stared at him for a full minute, her bright blue eyes glowing eerily in her dark face. She meowed softly, and Nate knew the cat wanted him to get up.
He rose on one elbow. “You’re not a dog that needs to be walked, so please do me a favor and go back to your bed and let me catch a few more winks.”
Patches meowed again, and he knew if he didn’t get up, the cat would continue to meow. “Okay, I’m coming.” He got out of bed, reached for the cutoffs he’d left on a chair, and slipped into them.
It hadn’t taken Nate long to see why Patches had come in
to his bedroom. A large bug with a hard shell lay on the middle of the kitchen floor, its wings fluttering. He pulled a sheet of paper toweling off the roll, picked up the bug, opened the back door, and released it.
Stretching his arms above his head, he inhaled a lungful of moist salt water. He stared up at the watercolor-painted sky. The sun was just coming up. He decided to go back to bed. “I took care of it, Patches,” he said to the cat when she rubbed against his bare leg. The Snowshoe blinked as if she understood what he was saying.
He returned to the bedroom, Patches following. He’d finished the barn, and there was no need for him to get up at dawn. Nate knew he’d been running on adrenaline when he’d worked sixteen-hour days to put up the new home for Shaw & Sons. He fell facedown onto the bed.
“Go away, cat,” he groaned when Patches jumped on the bed and snuggled against his thigh. He usually kept the bedroom door closed to keep her from getting into bed with him. If he wanted to share his bed with someone, he certainly didn’t want it to be a cat. It’d been more than six months since he’d made love to a woman. The statistic was a blatant reminder of his self-imposed celibacy.
Nate groaned again, this time when the flesh between his legs stirred. He’d told himself he didn’t need a woman to ease his sexual frustration; there were alternative methods for obtaining sexual release. But now that alternative didn’t seem so appealing, and he chided himself for asking Morgan for friendship. He could’ve easily asked to date her. After all, she’d mentioned the possibility of taking their relationship to the next level.
Turning over and flopping on his back, he stared at the whirling blades, waiting for his erection to go down. When it did, he was able to go back to sleep, his dreams filled with images of Morgan smiling and staring up at him from beneath lowered lids.
Chapter Nine
Morgan studied the wallpaper samples she’d uploaded to the desktop in her home office. The previous owners of Angels Landing had decorated all six bedrooms in shades of green: bottle green, fern green, moss green. Wall hangings, seat cushions, bed linens, and rugs all claimed some version of the color. When Kara mentioned the replication of the shade, Morgan decided that the bedrooms with dark furniture would have wallpaper and chair fabrics in a light palette, and that the opposite would be true in rooms with lighter-colored pieces.
She entered notes for the palette for the upholstered armchairs, a daybed, and a round pedestal table she’d identified as Swedish country with classic French provincial influences. The four snow-white pieces were now stored in the attic, along with all the furniture that had occupied the master bedroom’s sitting area.
When Nate referred to his brother as an artistic genius, Morgan felt he was being modest about his own talents. Even though she hadn’t seen his work firsthand, there was no doubt Nate was more than capable of continuing the furniture-making tradition begun generations before him. Her gaze shifted to the pedestal table made by Nate’s grandfather. She could imagine him working with wood in natural or painted-white tones.
Closing her eyes, she recalled the gentle press of his soft lips on hers. It wasn’t just the joining of mouths that had sent shivers of awareness up and down Morgan’s spine; it was also the lingering fragrance of his cologne, which complemented his body’s natural masculine scent. It was all she could do not to throw her arms around Nate’s neck, pull his head down, and drink in his kiss until she was sated.
Morgan continued adding notations along the palette column for the white French-inspired furniture: White curtains in sheer or lightweight material. Upholstery patterns in toile de Jouy, stripes, and checks.
“No green,” she whispered, chuckling under her breath. The minutes became hours as Morgan selected fabric and wallpaper for each of the six bedrooms. She still had to make selections for the two two-bedroom guesthouses. The longtime groundskeeper and his wife lived in one, and Kara and Jeff had decided to reserve the other for their personal use.
The cell phone on the desk chimed and Morgan glanced over at the display. She punched the button for the speaker feature. “What’s up, Fran?”
“Where are you, Mo?”
“I’m home. Why?”
“I’m on my way.” She glanced at the time on the phone. It was after five. The Beauty Box took its last customer at two o’clock on Saturdays, closing and locking its doors promptly at that time.
The line went dead, and Morgan wondered what it was Francine wanted to see her about. They went bike riding rain or shine, Monday through Friday, catching each other up on what had happened over the past twenty-four hours. Sometimes they rode in complete silence because they had nothing to say. The bike rides offset the need for her to work out at a sports club. The notion of setting up an in-home workout room was scrapped in favor of the solarium, where she spent many hours reading, relaxing, and listening to music.
Morgan was grateful for Francine’s distraction, because she needed to begin preparing for Sunday’s dinner. Walking on bare feet, she made her way down a narrow hallway to the renovated all-white kitchen. The pristine color was broken up by hanging palms and ferns in black-and-white checked glazed ceramic pots drinking in the light and sun in front of a trio of mullioned windows.
The contractor had installed state-of-the-art appliances: a refrigerator-freezer, dual dishwashers, a built-in microwave, cooktop, and double ovens with warming drawers. She placed five pounds of peeled white potatoes and three eggs in a large pot, covering them with cold water. Whenever it was her turn to host Sunday dinner she alternated between preparing pork, chicken, beef, or fish as the main dish. This time she would make the baby back ribs she’d purchased from one of two Haven Creek pig farmers. One advantage of living in the Creek was the ready availability of farm-raised chickens, eggs, and hogs. Some of the residents had established a cottage agricultural industry: On Tuesday mornings, they brought their products to a farm stand, selling homemade honey and homegrown fruits and vegetables. Jars lining the shelves in Morgan’s pantry were filled with jam, jelly, preserves, pickles, relishes, and seasoning sauces made by women who learned the tradition of canning from their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers.
The doorbell chimed, its bells echoing throughout the house, and Rasputin, who’d been reclining on a mat at the side door, scooted out of the kitchen and into the pantry. Morgan went to answer the door. Francine appeared to be agitated as she paced back and forth.
The redhead stopped pacing. “I went by your shop figuring I would see you, but the door was locked.” Her profusion of auburn curls moved as if they’d taken on a life of their own.
Morgan opened the door wider. “Come on in. Rasputin is hiding,” she said when she noticed Francine glancing around the parlor. Her cat and best friend were like oil and water. Francine didn’t like cats, and Rasputin knew it. She left the solid oak door open, but latched the screen door.
“Your pet is possessed,” Francine mumbled.
“Easy, easy,” Morgan drawled. “You’re talking about my baby.”
Francine’s expression brightened. “Speaking of babies, that’s why I’m here.”
“What’s wrong, Fran?”
Looping her arm through Morgan’s, Francine led her to the yellow floral love seat and pulled her down beside her. “Remember I told you that I hadn’t concentrated on Nate?” Morgan nodded. “Well, I did earlier this morning. And when he came to me in a vision, I was more than a little shocked.”
Morgan stared at her best friend, thinking about their long-lasting friendship. Francine was awarded a full scholarship to Yale as a drama student, graduated, and moved to New York City as a trained stage actress. She fell in love with a fellow struggling actor, and after a six-week courtship they were married at City Hall, with Morgan in attendance as a bridesmaid and witness.
Morgan didn’t have to be psychic to know that Aiden was using her friend. It was the Tanners who sent a check every month to cover the couple’s living expenses so they wouldn’t have to subsist on instant noodles.
Francine’s parents had achieved financial success after they’d opened a number of fast-food restaurants, and Mavis Tanner realized her longtime dream of owning and operating a full-service unisex salon when she opened the Beauty Box.
After Aiden secured a recurring role in a prime-time soap opera, he filed for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences. A week after the divorce was finalized, Aiden married one of his co-stars. As Aiden’s star rose, Francine’s fell, and she resorted to making commercials to keep up her acting skills. Her dream to become a stage actress faded, and she returned to Cavanaugh Island, enrolled in cosmetology school, and joined her mother at the Beauty Box.
“What about Nate and babies?” Morgan asked.
Biting on her lip, Francine stared straight ahead. “I saw him holding one.”
“You saw him holding a baby?” she asked, bewildered. “What does that have to do with me, Fran?”
“You were also in my vision. You were standing next to Nate.”
Morgan took in short, shallow breaths, her mind in tumult. Even though she’d told herself over and over that she didn’t believe in ghosts and spirits, her gut said otherwise.
“That means nothing, Fran. You see me, Nate, and a baby in your dream—”
“It wasn’t a dream, Mo,” Francine said, interrupting her. “I wasn’t asleep, and that means it was a vision.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Of course there’s a difference. You dream and I can see the future.”
“I stand corrected,” Morgan said facetiously. “Okay. It was a vision, but what I don’t understand is why you’re going on about me and Nate.”
“Did you not go out with him last night?”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “So you know about that? Or should I say you heard about it?”
Haven Creek Page 13
