by Meg Tilly
At first Luke had thought that the dark-haired woman with her was a friend. But as he watched them make their way through the market, he could see a similarity, although physically they were quite different. The tilt of the head, the way they moved their hands when they spoke, how they leaned toward each other, made him think perhaps they were sisters.
“Excuse me?”
Luke tore his gaze from the women. Time to get back to the task at hand. Customers were starting to line up around his stall. He was glad the local community had embraced his product. It was satisfying to watch the loaves fly off his table. It was coming up on eleven o’clock, and already two-thirds of his baskets were empty and stacked upside down in the corner. By noon everything would be sold, and he could pack up his table, baskets, and tent and go home.
“Yes?” he said.
It was Zelia Thompson, who owned Art Expressions Gallery. To an untrained eye, her flowing, colorful garments, chunky jewelry, and wild mane of curly hair proclaimed a free spirit, but below that surface was a shrewd businesswoman, strong to the core. He admired that in a woman. They had almost hooked up once. She had had tickets to an outdoor concert, came by his stall, wanted to know if he’d like to go with her. Americana country-soul. Why the hell not? The music had been surprisingly good. The violinist from Italy was especially talented. A storm had rolled in, and she’d retrieved an umbrella from her tote. Their shoulders had bumped as they’d stood close under its protection. He’d turned his head to comment on the band, and she was there, her mouth rising to meet his.
It had been a surprise. She was a beautiful, intelligent woman, so he had returned her kiss, but it hadn’t felt right. So he had shifted his body back to face the stage again.
She hadn’t held a grudge. Still came around, regular as rain, to buy his bread at the Saturday market.
“I’ll have four of your Asiago cheese buns,” she said, then turned to her companion, who, wearing a large hat, sunglasses, and holiday clothes, looked to be visiting from elsewhere. “They’re to die for. Everything he produces is.” She smiled, leaned toward her friend. “Well,” she purred, supposedly speaking to her companion but watching him through lowered lashes, “I’ve only had an amuse-bouche. Haven’t yet sampled everything he has the ability to produce, but never say never.”
Luke bagged the cheese buns. “That’ll be twelve dollars.”
“Oh,” Zelia said, playfully shaking her finger at him, “I’m not done with you. We’ll have some croissants, six plain and six chocolate—”
“Six of each?” her friend said, looking startled.
“Absolutely. They’re the best croissants on the island—nice and buttery, with just the right amount of crispness to the pastry. Once you eat one, nothing else will do. He only sells at Saturday market—won’t let me come to his house,” she said with a sigh. “So I have to buy enough to last me the week. I freeze them so I won’t eat all of them in one sitting.” She turned back to Luke. “I also want a French baguette and one of those delicious round loaves of sourdough rye.”
“Sure.” Luke counted out the croissants and plopped them into a bag. He was sliding the baguette into a paper sack when he became aware of a shift in the air around him.
He looked up, and there she was. And, yes, the other woman was most definitely a sister. Different hair color, but they both had the same large, almond-shaped eyes with a slight tilt at the corners and an unusual shade of green. An emerald green, he thought, getting lost in her eyes, enjoying the luxury of daylight to admire her. Yes, emerald with tawny flecks of brown and gold scattering outward from the irises like shooting stars.
“And the sourdough rye?” he heard Zelia say.
“Absolutely.” He handed her the baguette, bagged the rye bread, and passed that over to her as well. “Thanks. Appreciate your business,” he said, turning back toward the two sisters.
“Uh, Luke?”
He looked at Zelia. “Yes? Did I forget something?”
She laughed. “Yeah. What do I owe you?”
* * *
• • •
“HMM . . .” MAGGIE HEARD her sister murmur in her ear. “Either his bread is manna from God, or the hordes of women clustered around his booth mean you’re going to have some competition.”
“You are delusional,” Maggie muttered through clenched teeth, trying to discreetly wiggle out of her sister’s viselike grasp. “Eve, stop pushing me forward.”
The woman had called him Luke. The name fit.
The exotic beauty was now handing him money, the tips of her fingers drawing an invisible painting along his palm. Her nail polish was an unusual color, purple so dark it almost looked black. Maybe a custom blend. She seemed the artistic type. Probably created it herself.
She looked like the kind of woman who didn’t need to read Cosmo to find out what a man liked.
Although sometimes Cosmo was wrong.
Embarrassingly wrong, Maggie thought, her mind flying back to the time she’d carefully wrapped herself in plastic wrap—as per Cosmo’s suggestion—donned heels, and greeted Brett with a chilled bottle of chardonnay, two wineglasses, and a smile. “Irresistible” she was not. When Brett had finally stopped howling with laughter, he’d plucked the bottle of wine from her hand. “You’re nuts,” he said, shaking his head. He had pried a glass from her numb fingers, then gone into the living room and turned on the game.
Remembering that evening made Maggie feel like she had swallowed a mouthful of congealed lard.
“There you go,” Luke said, giving the woman her change.
She said something Maggie couldn’t quite hear and laughed, a low, husky laugh that made Maggie want to kick her in the shins. A ridiculous impulse. Why should she care if this woman was all but dry-humping his table? She watched as the woman walked away with her friend, confidence in every step. Maggie sighed. What would it feel like to be her, to be able to put an outfit together like that and wear it with panache? To say, I want that man, and go after him. To know that—
“Hello there,” a man’s voice said from behind Maggie’s shoulder.
She felt her sister elbow her in the ribs. Maggie turned back to her sister, to him.
He was looking at her attentively, the corners of his mouth quirking up. There was amusement in his eyes and something else, too. A languid sensuality throbbed off him, even more potent than she remembered from last night. She tried to ignore it, but the heat coursing through her body was saying, Whoopee! Let’s party!
“You make it to the cottage okay?” he asked.
Maggie didn’t need to glance over. She could feel her sister swivel and stare at her.
“Yeah, sure,” Maggie said. “Thanks for your help. Sorry about—”
“You know each other?” Eve cut in. “You’ve met?”
“Yes, last night,” Maggie said with a shrug. “It was super brief. Didn’t, uh, get around to introductions or anything. I, uh, I asked for directions. He gave them. No biggie—”
“How very fascinating,” Eve drawled. “You failed to mention—”
“No, I told you,” Maggie said, shooting her sister a cease-and-desist glare.
“Not really,” Eve said, a big smile on her face, eyes twinkling. “But not to worry. As for that pesky matter of introductions? Easy to solve. I’m Eve Harris, and this,” she said, gesturing toward Maggie like she was doing the reveal of a shiny new car on a TV game show, “is my sister, Maggie.”
Nine
“I KNOW YOU mean well, but you really have to stop.” Maggie was pacing as best she could. The cottage living room wasn’t big to start with, and Eve had plopped down in the middle of the floor, surrounded by bags filled with her loot from the market. “Eve? Eve, look at me.”
Eve glanced up. “Uh-huh,” she said, calm and unperturbed.
“I can’t,” Maggie said. “I don’t want to date.”
&
nbsp; “And you don’t have to,” Eve said, using her I’m-a-reasonable-woman voice. Which she so wasn’t. “Tonight is certainly not a date. We invited a nice neighbor over for dinner to thank him for saving you in your hour of need. Simple, neighborly courtesy. Stop stalking about and wringing your hands, Maggie. You’re making me dizzy.”
“You don’t understand.” Maggie moaned, slumping to the sofa. “Even if I were open to dating—which I’m not—it would never happen with him!”
“Why not?” Eve was unwrapping a pair of earrings now. Dainty, delicate bits of silver and multicolored glass. “You don’t think he’s handsome?” she asked, holding the dangly earrings up to her ears and turning her head this way and that.
“Of course he’s handsome!” Maggie said, frustration building. “The guy should have a warning label stamped on his forehead, for Chrissakes. That’s not the point—”
“Aha!” Eve said, gleefully spinning around to face her sister. “So you do think he’s handsome! Your taste is improving, little sistah. Your taste is improving—”
“The point is,” Maggie said, talking over her sister, needing to stop this runaway train in its tracks, “that even if I were interested, he’s most definitely not.”
Maggie must have been more forceful than she realized because Eve actually stopped talking. The only noise in the room was the tick of the old-fashioned clock on the fireplace mantel.
Eve studied her face. “You don’t know that,” she finally said, but Maggie could see a smidgen of doubt creep into her eyes.
“I do,” Maggie said, suddenly weary.
“But why? You’re a beautiful woman.”
Maggie snorted.
“You are,” Eve insisted. “And intelligent and kind. Any man would be lucky to date you.”
“You’re my sister,” Maggie said. She wanted to go to bed. Or have a glass of wine. Or eat some chocolate. Or do all three. The beginnings of a headache were threatening to form. Maggie dropped her head into her hands, started to massage her temples, her forehead.
“Are you crying?”
“No, of course I’m not crying—”
“That asshole!”
Maggie heard her sister shoot to her feet, packages tumbling from her lap. “Eve, no. It’s nothing like—”
“What did that Luke guy do? Did he say something mean? I’m gonna kill him!”
“Eve . . .” Maggie got up. Even that seemed to require so much effort. She took her sister by the shoulders. “He. Didn’t. Do. Anything.” She couldn’t be clearer than that. “He’s just not interested, is all.” Maggie gave a disparaging laugh. “And even if he were, he wouldn’t act on it.”
“Why not?”
“I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m crazy.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous! You’re the most stable person I know.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
“Please,” Eve said, rolling her eyes. “All he has to do is look at you. Everything about you screams sensible.”
“Really?” Maggie snapped. There was no reason to get snippy with her sister, but Maggie couldn’t help the sarcastic tone creeping into her voice. It wasn’t Eve’s fault Maggie had made such an ass of herself. “You want to know what I was wearing when I met him? Hmm?” she demanded.
“You know, now that we’re on the subject,” Eve said, “I was thinking it would be fun if you let me do a makeover on you. You’re so beautiful, and perhaps if you had the right—”
“Eve,” Maggie said. “In this instance, a makeover is not going to help. You want to know why?” Maggie held up a finger. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
She returned a moment later, wearing her fuzzy pink bathrobe, red long johns mummifying her shoulders and neck, and the pajama top tied around her head with a sleeve flopping in her face. “There. See? Are you satisfied? This is what I was wearing. This was my brilliant first impression! This is why he would have no possible choice but to conclude I’m a little deranged.”
Eve didn’t say anything. Just stared at Maggie, her eyes wide, hands flying to her mouth.
“Are you joking?” she finally said.
“No,” Maggie replied.
Eve shook her head like she was trying to make sense of what she was seeing. “But why, Maggs?” She looked so confused. “Why would you be walking around like that? What on earth got into you?”
“I was trying . . .” Maggie had to shut her eyes. Why was she feeling so emotional? It wasn’t like she even wanted to date this guy. She puffed out a breath and looked at her sister. “To be a wilderness adventurer.”
“In a pink bathrobe?”
And suddenly the humor of it—her ludicrous outfit, Eve’s woebegone face—made Maggie start laughing.
A split second later, her sister was laughing, too. One wave of laughter built on another, until finally they were laughing so hard their legs gave out and they fell to the floor. And whenever the laughter started to abate, one of them would yell out, “I was trying to be a wilderness adventurer!” And that would trigger yet another bout, until their eyes teared up and their bellies and cheeks ached too much to carry on.
“You were right though, Eve,” Maggie said later, as she was removing her “wilderness adventurer” garb. “I do love this place.”
“Me, too,” Eve said, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Wish we could live here always.”
“Yeah.” Maggie nodded, hanging her robe on the bathroom door hook. “Wouldn’t that be cool?”
Ten
LUKE HAD TAKEN a cold shower and chugged three espressos, hoping it would help. But he was still staggering on his feet. Why had he agreed to go? He never accepted invitations of any kind on Saturday nights. By five or six in the evening, he usually crashed and burned, and that was when he’d actually gotten sleep the night before.
Luke leaned forward and placed the pieces of his new motion sensor back in the shoe box on his coffee table. He’d been tweaking it, but it was pointless to continue working. His brain was mush.
He slumped back into the embrace of his deep, comfortable sofa. “This is not going to end well,” he told Samson, who was lounging alongside the fireplace. “It’s too late to cancel. They’ll already be cooking. I don’t know what to do. Don’t want to fall asleep at the table. That would be rude.”
Samson was no help. Just cocked a shaggy eyebrow at Luke, yawned, and let the warmth and glow of the fire seeping through the stone hearth lull him back to sleep.
Luke glanced at the clock—6:43 p.m. Another forty-seven minutes before he was supposed to arrive. Their cottage was a five-minute walk away. Maybe he should take another cold shower, get another espresso. Luke yawned, tipped his head back, resting it on the sofa. He stared up at the ceiling. No sweat, he told himself. Buck up! You can do this.
* * *
• • •
MAGGIE WAS FEELING pretty good. She had called Brett and done a little more arm-twisting and, miracle of miracles, he had agreed to buy her out. He tried to push back on the numbers she had given him, but she didn’t budge. All that was left was for her lawyer to read through the final document and for Brett to arrange a loan.
It was a nice feeling to have that behind her. The happiness clung to her throughout the dinner preparations, a joyous voice inside saying, New beginnings, fresh start, as she puttered around the kitchen.
She had made a marinade of olive oil, garlic, fresh ginger, maple syrup, soy sauce, kosher salt, pepper, a squeeze of fresh lemon, and a dash of cayenne. A beautiful wild salmon fillet was resting in it. She would wait until Luke arrived to put the fish on the grill. On the stove, black rice simmered in chicken stock, half an onion added for flavor, which she would remove before serving. Then she would add a dash or two of salt, some pepper, and a dollop of butter.
Eve had put together a salad. The table she had set looked pretty. They had
found a white linen tablecloth in a drawer, and the fresh flowers Eve had bought at the market were nicely arranged in a glass milk bottle. It seemed an odd choice for a vase, but once Eve had placed the flowers just so and tied a pale lavender ribbon around the top, Maggie had to admit the arrangement was very charming. Eve took after their mom in that way; she could make the plainest thing beautiful. Maybe I’ll let her do a makeover on me, Maggie thought.
Chardonnay was chilling in the fridge, and a bottle of cabernet stood on the counter. Everything was ready.
Maggie went into the living room. I might need to add another log to the fire. Of course, no logs were required. She had, after all, added a log a few minutes ago. The fire was roaring enthusiastically in the fireplace, and the room was already quite warm. Maggie opened the window and let in the night breeze.
The driveway was empty. She glanced at the path across the field in the direction of Luke’s house. Nothing. She looked a little longer, hoping he was just around the bend, his approach obscured by the darkness, making him blend in with the trees.
He didn’t appear.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel—8:15 p.m. “I’ll be damned if I’m going down this road again,” she muttered under her breath. She returned to the kitchen and took the salmon out of the fridge.
“He here?” Eve asked, pushing back from the table, replacing the chair, and giving the flowers one last tweak.
“Nope,” Maggie said as she went out the back door. She opened the lid of the heated grill and threw the salmon on. “He’s not coming.”
“You don’t know that,” Eve said from the doorway.
Maggie turned to look at her. Eve looked so beautiful, framed in light spilling out of the kitchen, so hopeful. Maggie hated to disappoint her, but facts were facts. “Eve, it is eight seventeen. The man is forty-seven minutes late.”
