by Meg Tilly
“Maybe something came up?”
“Then he should have called.”
“I think you’re being unduly harsh. I didn’t give him my phone number. Did you? No? I didn’t think so.”
Maggie set her jaw. “Then he should have had the common courtesy to drop by to tell us. He knows where the cottage is. So that leaves us with two possibilities”—Maggie held up a finger—“(a) He’s an inconsiderate jerk who has no respect for anyone’s time but his own and thinks it’s perfectly fine to show up extremely late to a dinner party. Not okay. Or”—she held up a second finger—“(b) He’s the type of guy who makes plans and then bails with no apologies. Again, not okay. I just got out of a relationship with a self-involved asshole. I have no desire to start dating another one.”
Eve looked at her, a smile spreading across her face. “You’re right,” she said. “He is a dickhead. I’m glad he didn’t show up, because that means more of your amazing cooking for me. I’m starving! And if he has the gall to show up now, we’ll kick him to the curb.”
* * *
• • •
LUKE WOKE TO a wet nose and a head butt. “Go away, Samson,” he mumbled.
Samson gave him another nudge, accompanied by a short, rumbling woof.
He must have crashed on the sofa before taking Samson out for his final nightly hurrah. “Sorry, boy,” he said, pushing himself forward, getting to his feet, groggy and a bit disoriented. The two of them headed for the back door.
Outside, he stretched slightly, still a little woozy, but he enjoyed the night sounds and the peaceful twinkle of the stars while Samson went through his ritual of christening various bushes and trees.
He rolled his shoulders. They were a trifle sore. Always were after Saturday’s bread-baking marathon. Took a toll on the lower back as well. He twisted, rotating his body from side to side, loosening up his spine—and that was when he remembered.
The dinner invitation.
“Damn!”
Samson looked over, tilting his head to one side.
“Jesus. What time is it?” he shouted, running for the door and wrenching it open.
Samson gazed mournfully after him, as if to say, You’re screwed, you sorry bastard.
Luke dashed into the kitchen, grabbed the bouquet of flowers and the bottle of Malbec and sprinted out the door.
“I’m so sorry. I’m terribly sorry,” Luke muttered as he ran. It took a bit of juggling with the wine and flowers to tuck in his shirt properly and comb his fingers through his hair to smooth it into some semblance of civility. “It’s indefensible to arrive so late.” Luke took a shortcut through the back field. “What time is it? Late. It’s probably late. Damn.”
When Luke arrived at the Rosemary & Time cottage, all was silent. The windows were dark. The blank glass panels stared at him like shuttered eyes. Not even the tiniest hope of light spilled out.
Eleven
THE HOUSEKEEPER WALKED across the Spanish-tile floor of the hall on quiet feet. She had learned early on that rubber-soled shoes were a must.
There was company, and an order for hot hors d’oeuvres had wakened them from a dead sleep. The cook was incapacitated with a migraine, so Maritza had covered for him. “You rest,” she had said. “It’s simple. I’ll warm up a few things. No big deal.” It was 2:35 a.m., but never mind; they looked out for one another. It was necessary when working for a crazy.
However, now she was having severe misgivings.
A guttural scream erupted from behind the closed study door, followed by the sound of something shattering. Maritza hoped it wasn’t another piece of that beautiful Waterford crystal. It hurt her heart, sweeping up the shards. Why not break something inexpensive?
She stood there with the tray of hot hors d’oeuvres. Should she go in, or should she run back to the kitchen and come back later? It was always a dangerous proposition to place oneself in the line of fire. Nevertheless, she had a job to do. She had just lifted her hand to rap on the door when something crashed against it. Something large and breakable.
“Who the hell does she think she is? Threatening to sell to Pondstone Inc.? I’ll kill the bitch first,” the voice snarled, the fury and venom in it palpable. But it was the maniacal laughter that followed that caused the tiny hairs on Maritza’s arms and at the back of her neck to quiver and the nausea to rise in her throat.
She did an about-face, moving as swiftly and silently as she could back to the safety of the kitchen. She was sorry about Tim’s headache, but he was going to have to get up and take the food in. There was no way in hell she was going to enter that room.
Twelve
EVE REACHED FOR another piece of Maggie’s hot coffee cake with the fragrant cinnamon, brown sugar, pecan, and butter topping. “This is truly amazing,” she said, slicing the cake open and slipping a slab of butter in the middle to melt. “I don’t know how you take a little of this and a pinch of that and make such heaven on earth.”
“Glad you like it,” Maggie said, feeling a warm glow spread through her chest. She liked creating delicious food for her sister to eat.
“There’s something so comforting about having a nice hunk of warm coffee cake to go with one’s cheddar and chive scrambled eggs.”
Maggie took a sip of her coffee, the aroma rising with the steam, accentuating the flavor, and watched Eve take another mouthful of coffee cake.
Her sister’s eyes drifted shut.
“Mmmm.” Eve moaned. “So good.” Suddenly her eyelids flew open. “I’ve got it!” she yelled, standing up and slamming her fork down on the table. “Oh my God. I am a genius!” She threw up her arms and did a victory dance around the kitchen.
“What’s going on? You’re going crazy.” Maggie laughed as Eve grabbed her arms and pulled her into a wild polka around the room.
“I just had an epiphany!” Eve said. “You and I are going to get a stall for the Saturday market!”
“A what?”
“A stall. You know, like the bonehead bread man has. A stall. And you’re going to sell your to-die-for baked goods!”
“Wait a minute, Eve. We’re only here for three weeks—”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Eve crowed. “We have three whole weeks to give it a test run. See if moving here could be a possibility. Yes, you’d be doing the baking, but I could help.” Eve was waving her arms around again. She always did that when she was worked up. “You’d just need to point me in the right direction and tell me what to do. I could buy the supplies, do the dishes, decorate the stall, deal with customers—no problem. I love it here. You love it here. I can paint here. Every time I come, I’m inspired.”
“I know, but to move—”
“Maggs,” Eve said, suddenly serious, “I can’t . . .” She shook her head, eyes dark all of a sudden. “I can’t go back. I’m”—her mouth twisted slightly, an expression Maggie hadn’t seen on her before—“not happy there.”
“I thought you liked living in Brooklyn,” Maggie said, feeling as if the world had shifted on its axis somehow. “The luxury of having world-class art just a subway ride away and the shows and the restaurants and—”
“Pffft,” Eve said, looking weary. “I’m thirty years old, and what do I have to show for it? A loft in Brooklyn that I share with three people—”
“Three? I thought it was just you and Carmen.”
“It was,” Eve said dryly. “But her boyfriend, Joey, moved in. Which was fine. A little crowded, but fine. But then she decided she was polyamorous, and Dylan moved in.” Eve walked over to the table and plucked the piece of coffee cake off her plate. “Sure, that brought the rent and utilities down, but . . .” She took a bite of her cake, her other hand cupped below it to catch crumbs.
“Carmen is polyamorous?” Maggie was trying to wrap her mind around the idea. In high school, Carmen had been a skinny string bean of a girl who wore l
arge-framed glasses and blushed incessantly. She was two grades ahead of Maggie, but both of them had frequented the library during lunch hour.
“Wow,” Maggie said. “I always thought her cheeks flamed like that because she was super shy. You know, prim and proper. But maybe she was thinking wildly experimental things even back then.”
“Yeah, it surprised the hell out of me, too, but hey”—Eve shrugged—“it is what it is. No judgment. It’s inconvenient, is all. Her old boyfriend Joey’s going along with the ‘lifestyle,’ but I can tell his feelings are hurt. All that emotion is ricocheting around the place and making it impossible for me to settle into the work. I try, but it’s forced; I’m unable to achieve any kind of depth with my painting. I have no privacy. There’s too much noise-of-the-intimate-sort when they’re getting along and too much drama when they aren’t. And four people sharing one bathroom, two of them grown-ass hairy men. Yuck.”
“Wow.” Maggie shook her head in disbelief. “I had no idea. At Christmas, when Mom and Dad were quizzing you, you didn’t mention any of this. The Brooklyn-loft life sounded like nirvana.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want them to worry.”
“But work’s good, right? You’re enjoying teaching—”
“I hate it,” Eve said.
“You hate it?” Maggie squeaked. She could feel her eyebrows flying upward. “I thought you found it fulfilling, helping other people discover their inner artist.”
“Nope,” Eve said, starting to laugh. “You should take a peek in the mirror, Maggie. You look so funny, like a cartoon character going ‘GAZOINKS!’” Eve swallowed the last bite of her cake and licked smidgens off her fingers. “I thought I’d like teaching, but the reality is actually rather grim. I went to Yale, for crying out loud. It has the best art program in the country. I worked hard. Did everything I was supposed to and then some. I studied with the best. Graduated top of my class, Maggie. You would think that would count for something. So, what am I doing? What is my big, fancy career? A mercy job one of my profs got me. Four days a week, I’m on the train six and a half hours: three hours and fifteen minutes to get to New Haven and the same to get back. And for what? To teach after-school art to a handful of bored, overprivileged kids, most of whom have no desire to be there.”
Eve sat back down at the table with a sigh, pushed her plate away, then leaned forward, plopped her elbows on the table, and rubbed her face.
“On my days off, am I painting? No. Who has the time? Gotta pay the bills, after all, so I’m a cocktail waitress at Trapeze. The tips are good, but putting on a smile and those heels to work at that club night after night?” Eve looked up at Maggie, who was still standing in the center of the kitchen. “It’s soul-destroying, Maggs.”
Maggie wasn’t sure what to say.
“But enough about me,” Eve said, seeming to shake off her wave of melancholy. “What about you? What would you be going back to? Huh? Do you really want to go back to living in Phoenix? The only reason you moved to Arizona was because Brett wanted to. You’re selling your share of the company, so there’s nothing to keep you there.”
“I know, but . . .” Maggie protested weakly, feeling slightly dizzy even contemplating it. Brett had moved to Arizona shortly after Great-aunt Clare died, and Maggie had followed. “I’ve built a life there.”
“Yeah. A life that sucks. You don’t need to go back to that. Let’s throw it out and start anew.”
“But you can’t just—”
“Why not?” Eve said, her face flushed with passion. “We are the creators of our own destiny.” She flattened her hands on the table and pushed to her feet. “It’s up to us to save ourselves and build the life we want. And I want this!” she said, thumping her clenched fist to her heart. Maggie could see in her sister’s gaze expectant hope and a bit of a dare. “What about you?”
A million things flew through Maggie’s head: all the reasons why it wouldn’t work, why it was a bad idea, fears that her baking wasn’t good enough, that she didn’t want to let her sister down, why it was an unrealistic pipe dream . . .
“Okay,” she heard herself say. “I’m in.”
* * *
• • •
“OH NO.” EVE slumped back in her chair and stared at her laptop computer. “This is not good.”
“What?” Maggie asked, looking up from the list she was compiling of baked goods she could make for their new venture.
“Apparently only residents of Solace are allowed to have stalls.”
“Well, we’re residing here, for the next three weeks at least. Can we use this address?”
“No. That won’t cut it. This is a temporary accommodation. In order to qualify for a stall, we have to show two items proving this is our primary residence. Local driver’s license, phone or water bill, et cetera.”
“That sucks,” Maggie said as the buoyant feeling that had been carrying them through the last few hours started to dissipate.
“Darn.” Eve exhaled loudly and dropped her head into her hands, her elbows clunking onto the table. “I was really excited about this.”
“Me, too.” And as Maggie said it, she could feel the truth of her statement. “Look, maybe there’s a way around it. If we explain we’re contemplating a move—”
“Nah,” Eve said, sliding her laptop across the table to her sister. “Take a look. It’s pretty cut-and-dried. Even if we were residents, we’d be put on a waiting list and wouldn’t be guaranteed a spot. If we did luck out and get one, we’d have to outlay a serious chunk of change to buy a tent and table, because apparently, they aren’t included.” She stood up. “I’m depressed. Gonna go back to bed.”
“Eve . . .” Maggie said. She had hoped that once she opened her mouth, more comforting words would follow, but nothing came. The facts were the facts.
“Don’t worry,” Eve said, heading toward the bedroom. “A half-hour nap and I’ll be good as new.” She turned and looked at her sister, smiling wanly. “It was a crazy idea to start with. We’ll have a nice vacation with long tramps through the woods, seashore ambles, and delicious food. We’re lucky, really.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Hell’s bells,” Eve said. “Can you deal with it? It’s probably one of the owners. Lovely ladies but long-winded, and I’m in no mood for a chat.”
“Sure,” Maggie said, rising to her feet.
“Thanks,” Eve said, and disappeared into the bedroom.
* * *
• • •
MAGGIE OPENED THE door, and Luke’s breath caught in his throat. She was a vision of loveliness, with her rumpled auburn hair tumbling down her back, strands glinting copper and gold in the sunshine. She was wearing jeans and a crisp white blouse and was barefoot.
She stared at him for a moment, the welcoming smile on her face fading. “You,” Maggie said, her voice flat, her eyes narrowing.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, thrusting last night’s flowers and wine into her hands before the words he could see bubbling their way to the surface could escape her mouth. “I accidentally fell asleep, but that’s no excuse for not showing up for dinner.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
She started to shut the door.
He needed to talk fast. “It was incredibly bad manners to stand you up.” The door was almost closed now. “And I hope you’ll give me a chance to make it up to you.” His voice was building in volume to try to reach through the now-shut door.
He waited.
Nothing.
Damn.
“Anything at all,” he called. “Just let me know.” Even though it was clearly a lost cause. Samson nudged him. “Yeah,” he said, giving his dog’s scruffy head a pat. “I screwed up.” He sighed and headed up the path. “Come on, boy,” he said, slapping his thigh, but Samson ignored him and continued snuffing at the door. “Samson, co
me.”
Samson loped over reluctantly.
“Hey,” Luke heard her call. He turned around.
She was standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. No smile, but at least she was there.
“There is something you can do.” She said it like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down.
“Sure,” he said, even though the expression on her face made him a trifle uneasy. “Whatever you want.”
Thirteen
IF LUKE HAD been thinking with his head, instead of another, more insistent part of his anatomy, he would have said no. Would have walked away and dismissed her request out of hand.
But he hadn’t.
And he was paying for it now.
He glanced at his watch. The Saturday market would be in full swing by now, but was he there? No. He was sitting in Ethelwyn and Lavina’s guest cottage, with a truckload of fresh-baked bread waiting in the drive, watching Maggie and Eve race around the kitchen like chickens with their heads cut off.
“Can I help?” he asked for the umpteenth time.
“No!” they both shouted in unison.
Let it go, he told himself. If penance were easy, they wouldn’t call it penance. You’ll get to the market when you get there. He made a conscious effort to get out of his head and drop back into his body. To feel the chair under him. To smell the delicious . . . Dear God. Maggie had dashed to the oven and was bent over, lifting truly succulent scented pies off the rack. His mouth was watering, but he wasn’t sure if it was the aroma from the pies or the way her dress clung to her body, caressing her buttocks and thighs.
“Hey, Luke?” Eve’s voice cut through his mental meanderings. He looked over. She was rigging some wire on the back of an eye-catching whimsical sign. “Actually, if you would hold this while I tie and clip it, and then bring it out to the truck?”
