Just then she called him to dinner, breaking his personal reverie. And so he rose from his chair in a rather awkward of his and then joined her at the table.
Everything looked wonderful, and he said so. The fish seemed baked to perfection, the salad was crisp, and the freshly prepared risotto was still steaming. After they sat down, he looked at her and smiled. As if she had been doing it all her life, she first prepared a plate for him and then one for herself. Only then did she sit down across from him.
When Greg took his first bite of the fish, his face lit up. To his happy surprise, he had never tasted anything quite like it.
“Damn!” he said. “This is wonderful! This settles it! Winston’s Baked Walleye is definitely worthy of a place in your recipe book!”
After Brooke took a tentative bite of the fish, she nodded. “I think you’re right,” she answered. “And what about the risotto and the salad?” she asked. “Are those okay too?”
As he enjoyed one of the best meals of his life, Greg nodded happily. “Absolutely,” he answered. “With food this good, and your cabin so close to mine, you may never get rid of me!”
Brooke was unsure of what to say. She was beginning to genuinely like this man, this handsome artist who had so unexpectedly entered her life. In many ways he was quite unlike the other men she had known, including her husband, Bill. Just then the memory of Bill overtook her heart again, as did the lingering sense of sadness she always experienced every time she thought of him or whenever she received another of his heartfelt letters. Sighing slightly, she put down her fork.
The change in her was not lost on Greg. Although he still did not know her well, he believed that he was beginning to understand her moods, her needs, and that special sense of fearful melancholy she always seemed to carry regarding her husband. It was Bill, Greg realized, of whom she was now thinking, rather than him. For the first time since knowing her, he reached out and touched her hand. To his surprise, doing so came naturally to him, almost automatically. And to his further contentment, she did not pull away.
“Are you thinking about Bill again?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she answered sadly. “I’m sorry, sometimes I just can’t help it. I don’t mean to ruin our dinner, honestly I don’t. It’s just that sometimes my thoughts of him take over, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Greg instinctively rubbed her hand a bit, the same way he might do to comfort a crying child or an ill person. To him, the gesture had no greater meaning than simply trying to calm her. Or so he had thought at the time, he would later realize. . .
“That’s quite all right,” he said gently. “No one could expect you to feel any differently. If you did, you wouldn’t be human.”
“Thank you for understanding,” Brooke said. Then he saw her smile just a bit through her sadness. “You somehow always seem to make me feel better,” she said. “And you’re such a good listener, too. All I can say is that I’m glad it was you who became my new neighbor, rather than somebody else.”
“Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me.”
They then returned to eating their dinner, this time in relative silence. Greg knew that Brooke didn’t really feel like talking, and for his part, he was content to simply be in her presence and to enjoy her marvelous cooking.
At last they began tentatively chatting about this and that, the same sort of things, he supposed, that most Americans probably discussed at the dinner table during this time of war. As if there were some tacit agreement between them, they spoke no more of Bill or of Brooke’s sadness in missing him. When they had at last finished eating, Greg sat back in his chair, looked at her, and smiled.
“Well,” he said, “you can certainly cook! Assuming that an army travels on its stomach, if all of our boys had you cooking for them, we’d take Berlin and Tokyo in no time.”
At last, Brooke smiled fully. “Thanks,” she said. “It’s been a while since I had a man to fuss for. I enjoyed it.”
“As did I,” Greg said softly.
After they cleaned up the dishes, Greg made some fresh coffee. He poured a cupful for each of them, whereupon they went out onto the porch and sat down. The wind had risen a little, causing whitecaps to form on the surface of the lake. The scent of evergreen rode the night air and the sky was still cloudless, allowing thousands of stars to sprinkle the heavens. It was wonderful, Greg thought. Just as the woman sitting next to him was wonderful, as well.
“Does it ever bother you?” Brooke asked.
Greg turned and looked at her, her profile lovely in the moonlight. “Does what bother me?” he asked back.
“How privileged we are,” Brooke answered. “Sometimes I feel guilty about being here in this beautiful and serene place, while so many others all around the world are fighting for their very lives. When it comes Bill’s time to fight, and I cannot know from day to day whether he’s still alive, I sometimes wonder if I’ll be able to endure it. I also wonder if I’ll be able to return here again before the war ends and enjoy all these innocent pleasures that seem to make me feel so guilty.”
Greg nodded. “Yes,” he answered, “I know what you mean, and it sometimes bothers me in a way that you may not understand. Because of my foot, I could not enlist. I cannot be with them, as an otherwise healthy man should be. Yes, it bothers me. It bothers me a lot.”
Suddenly worried that she might have offended him, she reached out and touched his hand.
“I’m so sorry, Greg,” she said. “I didn’t mean it that way. You have no choice in the matter, I understand that. And I also know that if you could be out there with them, you would be.”
“Thank you for understanding,” Greg replied. “Not serving is something that I wrestle with every day of my life. Perhaps when this damned war is over and the survivors come back home to us, I’ll feel like I’m a part of everything once again.”
Sighing slightly, Greg shifted in his chair. He didn’t want to go back home yet. But it was growing late, and he now felt a need to be alone, to think about the time he had spent with her today and the things they had said to one another. When he stood from his chair, Brooke understood and followed suit. And then, to his pleasant surprise, she took both of his hands into hers.
“I fully realize that I don’t know you very well yet, Greg Butler,” she said. “But I already have the feeling that deep down, you are a very good man.”
“Thank you, Brooke,” he said. Then he gave her a little smile. “It’s been a long time since I had food that good.”
“In that case,” Brooke said, “we’ll have to do it again very soon. So tell me, can you hunt as well as you fish?”
Greg laughed. “I’ll see what I can do,” he replied. “I have a feeling that no matter what kind of game I brought to you, you could turn it into something marvelous.”
Brooke only smiled. “Good night, Greg,” she said.
“Good night,” Greg answered softly. “And thanks again for not only the meal, but also for the wonderful company.”
As he walked back down the moonlit beach toward his cottage, about halfway there Greg Butler stopped, turned, and looked back at Brooke’s little cabin. The lights were still on and he could easily imagine her in the kitchen, cleaning up the final odds and ends of their dinner together. As he stood there watching, he lit another cigarette, its glowing end bright in the evening’s darkness. Then a thought came to him, and he sighed.
Living next to her all summer is going to be wonderful, he thought. But it will also be terrible, because she’s someone I could very much come to care for. And because of that, I must always remember that she belongs to another. But will I succeed in that effort?
As he took another drag on his cigarette, he looked up at the stars and shook his head.
Only time will tell, he thought.
ON FINISHING BROOKE’S second entry, Chelsea closed the old book and then placed it on the coffee table before the fireplace. Her mind lost in thought, she sat there for some t
ime before finally giving in and going to bed.
Chapter 10
Late the following afternoon, Chelsea lay atop a lounger, which she’d placed just short of the waves’ furthermost reach, so that they slid to and fro beneath her. The beach furniture she had seen in the boathouse was dilapidated beyond use, so Brandon had lent her the lounger, plus a beach umbrella that was supplying some welcome shade.
The white, one-piece swimsuit she wore was comfortable, as were her matching sun hat and sandals. Dolly had been fed and she was off somewhere with Jeeves, the two of them no doubt searching for something to chase. Chelsea had also taken her first real swim in the lake as best she could while also trying to keep her bandaged hand dry. Afterward she had lain on the dock and let the sun and wind dry her.
She put down the magazine she had been reading and then she turned and looked out across the water. Save for the occasional pleasure craft, things were quiet. The breeze was pleasant, and the waves were light. A perfect summer’s day, it seemed, for contemplating the nature of the universe. And right now, her universe was Lake Evergreen.
She had called her mother earlier this afternoon to let her know that she was all right and to try to get an idea of how Lucy was holding up. As Chelsea had feared, Lucy still sounded brittle and frail. She had expressed a modicum of interest in Chelsea’s trip, but when Chelsea tried to explain how marvelous the cottage proved to be, Lucy hadn’t cared, and she immediately reverted into martyr mode. With a heavy heart, Chelsea had at last said good-bye. It was clearly going to take a lot of time before Lucy felt whole again, if she ever did.
While leaning back in her lounger, Chelsea lowered one bare foot and allowed it to be caressed by an incoming wave. Living like this could soon become habit forming, she realized. Was it wrong of her to be enjoying herself while her mother so desperately mourned? There was no clear-cut answer for that one, she decided. Besides, she had resolved to obey her grandmother’s wishes.
She no longer intended to sell the cottage; of that much, she was now certain. In fact, she was considering spending her entire summer there. With a little help from Allistaire Reynolds, it could easily be arranged. Her mail could be forwarded via the mail boat, and she could use direct deposit for her paychecks. However, if she stayed, she would need more clothes. She could go home and fetch them, or, she supposed, buy some new ones in Serendipity. The selection probably wouldn’t be great, but she certainly didn’t need anything fancy to wear up here, either. Best of all, if she stayed, she would have lots of time to take up her painting again. Perhaps Serendipity might even have an art shop where she could get the things she needed.
But such housekeeping issues were minor. Ultimately, her decision about whether to stay rested on but two things. One of them was the still fully undisclosed nature of Brooke’s private journal. And the other, she was starting to realize, was Brandon Yale.
She turned and gazed down the beach toward Brandon’s cottage. It was a gray, clapboard-sided affair that appeared to be about as old as hers. His Jeep was gone, leading Chelsea to believe that after lending her the beach furniture, he had gone to the hospital. He must have struck some sort of deal with the hospital administration in order to have such freedom, she guessed. However, given the informal nature of everything up there, she wasn’t surprised. Besides, how in all good conscience could they reject a native-born son who had become a Harvard-trained doctor?
As she turned back toward the restless lake, she again thought about Brandon. He was a very pleasant man, she knew, but she also guessed that he could be reticent. Because he remained something of a puzzle, Chelsea couldn’t help but wonder about that. So far, the only evidence of any taciturn side had been yesterday when he had looked wistfully out at the lake, and then again, just before dinner. Partly because of that, Chelsea’s personal interest in him grew larger by the moment. He intrigued her and she very much wanted to understand his hopes, his dreams, and his needs. Most of all, she wanted to know whether he had such an interest in her. Nevertheless, she had no idea how to bring the two of them closer. And then, an answer appeared.
She could tell him the entire story, she thought. If he agreed, they could further examine Brooke’s journal together. Perhaps if she shared the experience with him, he might open up more. She fully realized that because she still didn’t know what the journal had to say, she might be taking a risk. In addition, doing so might violate the spirit of Gram’s intentions, which bothered her a bit.
But at the same time, Brooke’s letter had said that Chelsea could handle these things as she wanted. And despite how little she might know about Brandon, her heart of hearts said that she could trust him. Plus, ever since she’d first read Gram’s letter back in Allistaire’s office, another need had been growing inside her. The more she explored the journal, the more she realized that she wanted someone with whom to share its mysteries. And, she remembered, Brandon had already said that the previous owner of his cottage had been a portraitist. Was Gregory Butler the one who had started the portrait of Brooke that still sat above the fireplace mantel? And if so, might Brandon somehow have a stake in all of this, too?
Just then, she heard a car, and she turned to see that Brandon had come home. At once Dolly and Jeeves appeared, barking out their greetings. After laughing and tousling their ears, Brandon waved to Chelsea and went inside his cottage. He would come and see her soon, she knew, because he had promised to check on her hand.
Still wondering what to do, Chelsea abandoned her lounger and walked back to her cottage to await him.
Chapter 11
After changing into some dry clothes, Chelsea poured herself a beer, then grinned widely at the amazing memory of Jeeves actually fetching one for Brandon last night.
Now, she thought, if we could only teach Jeeves how to cook, we’d have it made . . .
Then she realized something, and it took her aback.
“We” . . . ? she thought. Is that what I’m already thinking—that Brandon and I constitute a “we”? You’d best slow down, girl . . .
Just then, she heard a knock on the screen door. Brandon stood there, his medical bag at the ready.
“Come on in,” Chelsea said.
“Thanks,” he answered.
Brandon looked nice, Chelsea thought. He was dressed in navy slacks, a matching dress shirt, and more formal shoes.
“Want a beer?” Chelsea asked. “My delivery isn’t as spellbinding as Jeeves’s, but I’ll happily get you one anyway.”
He set his bag atop the counter. “Yeah,” he answered, “that’d be great.”
After sipping their beers, at Brandon’s suggestion they went and sat at Chelsea’s dining table.
“Now then,” he said, “let’s get another look at this hand of yours.”
Brandon rolled up his sleeves and gently removed the bandage. After checking Chelsea’s wound, he nodded his approval.
“It looks good,” he said. “I’m not going to replace the bandage, though.”
“Why not?”
“Because wounds heal faster when exposed to the air,” he answered. “The same goes for bites like yours. But you mustn’t overuse your hand, and I still want you to keep it dry. Do you need another shot for the pain?”
“No, it’s better now,” Chelsea answered. “When a girl is in distress, it’s great to have a neighborly doctor nearby.”
And there it was again, she suddenly realized as she searched his face. The quiet, almost maudlin side about him that seemed to suddenly surface from time to time. Chelsea had originally believed her comment to be quite benign. But when Brandon’s expression had so quickly sobered, she realized that she had unwittingly touched a nerve. Another part of the puzzle? she wondered.
“Thanks,” he finally answered.
It was at last time, Chelsea decided, to take the plunge. “There are some things that I’d like to show you,” she said. “Would you mind staying a bit longer?”
“Of course not,” he answered. To her relief, he fi
nally smiled again. “Besides, I’ve got a beer to finish.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” Chelsea said.
She walked out onto the porch and then returned with the journal and the photos, all of which she set on the table. After perusing them a bit, Brandon gazed questioningly into her eyes.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” he said. “What’s all this about?”
As Chelsea told him everything, he listened with great interest. When she finished, Brandon sat back in his chair.
Then, for the very first time, she dared to reached out and touch one of his hands. Perhaps she did so because she was starting to understand how much she really cared for him. Or maybe it was because she was considering sharing Brooke’s journal entries with him, and her heart felt the better for it. Whatever the reason, when their hands met it felt vitally significant to her, as if part of the invisible barrier between them had suddenly come down.
After collecting up the photos, Chelsea asked Brandon to accompany her into the living room, where she gestured toward the painting.
“You mentioned that the man you bought your cottage from was a portraitist,” Chelsea said. She again pointed to the man in one of the photos. “Could that be him?” she asked.
After several moments of looking, Brandon nodded.
“His name was Gregory Butler,” he said. “And yes, he’s the same man from whom I bought my cottage. He looks much younger here, of course. But it’s him, no doubt about it. He had a clubfoot, poor man.”
Brandon then looked up at Brooke’s unfinished portrait again. “And,” he added quietly, “it seems that he’s also the man who started this portrait. He must have been Brooke’s neighbor up here. And he would have been her only one.”
“What makes you think so?” Chelsea asked.
More Than Words Can Say Page 10
