by Hinze, Vicki
A flood of warmth flowed through her. Nice. Very nice, but odd. The room was a little on the chilly side. “Thanks for helping me, Jeremy.”
“You’re welcome.” He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and rocked the toe of his sneaker against the rug. His shoelace dragged on the floor.
Suzie, doelike with her large brown eyes, just stared at Cally, to the point that she was half tempted to check the mirror, as much as she hated mirrors, to see if something spotted her face. She studied Suzie’s eyes. No, she wasn’t staring at Cally’s face, but at her carnation. Wasn’t she?
To be certain, Cally took off her hat and unpinned the flower. “Would you like to have this, Suzie?”
“No! Please don’t take it off. Please.”
Why was the child so upset? What had Cally done wrong? “Okay, I won’t,” she hurriedly added. She couldn’t keep her hat on forever, but this seemed important to Suzie and, having wanted a child of her own for so long, Cally wanted to see the girl’s eyes shining with happiness again, as they had been downstairs when she’d been dancing with the postman. Not as they were now, clouded with worry. “Where should I put the flower, do you think?”
“On your shirt.” Suzie pointed to Cally’s lapel.
“Blouse, sweetheart.” Cally dumped her purse on the floor beside the bed, and caught a whiff of her narcissus-scented perfume and Jeremy’s little-boy, earthy scent. It was a pleasing blend. “Guys wear shirts, girls wear blouses.”
Suzie nodded. “Blouse, then.”
Caline glanced at the bed. The blue coverlet looked plush and comfortable. The whole house reeked of comfort. She was going to like it here. And she had the eeriest feeling that something important, something special, would happen to her in this house.
Probably stemmed from all that nonsense Lucy Baker had babbled about the legend of Collin and Cecelia Freeport’s love being so strong it had defied death and still lingered within Seascape’s walls. According to Lucy, Cecelia had been a healer, and Cally admitted that she did feel different here. But how could the love of a couple who’d died shower those here now with the blessings of love and peace as Lucy had claimed? Maybe she was just a romantic at heart. It couldn’t happen, of course. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if even a part of that were true?
Jeremy shrugged. “Put the flower in your pocket, Cally.”
She grinned. “I think we’d be safer with Suzie’s suggestion this time, Jeremy.” The flower in one hand, the pin in the other, Cally frowned down at her blouse. “I always stick myself doing this.”
Bryce hobbled into the room, then deposited her case on the floor near the closet door. “Let me help.”
Cally’s heart took a little dip. He’d changed into a fresh white shirt, navy slacks, and a different but still ultraconservative silk tie that made him look like a guy fresh off the pages of GQ. With luck, she’d stop hoping he’d look less appealing in jeans. Imagining denim clinging to his thighs, she felt a warm rush of heat and nixed the thought. Unfortunately, he’d appeal in anything he wore.
“Daddy’s gonna help Cally.” Suzie tugged at Jeremy, looking awfully pleased. “Come on, we can go now.”
“No, I wanna stay here.” Jeremy pulled away. “Mrs. Wiggins is still mad at me.”
Suzie rolled her gaze and gave Jeremy another solid tug. “She’s gonna be mad forever anyway, so what’s the difference? Come on, we’ve gotta get the dirt off you.”
Jeremy frowned down at his mud-crusted jeans. “How come?”
“Because, dimwit.” Suzie gave him a firm yank, then smiled sweetly at Cally and her father. “If only we have the courage to believe, miracles can happen beside a dreamswept sea.”
A shudder rippled up Cally’s back. Her instincts rioted, flashed a warning: Listen. Take the message’s meaning into your heart.
The feeling burned so strong it nearly buckled her knees. Suzie had said something vitally important. Cally couldn’t explain exactly what, but she’d understood the importance at gut level, and she swore she’d listen to it—as soon as she deciphered it. She lacked courage, but if she had it and believed—in what, she had no idea—then miracles—what kind of miracles, she again had no idea—could happen.
Swiping at his nose, Jeremy frowned at Suzie. “Huh?”
Bryce held that same baffled expression, and yet some odd light shone in the depths of his hazel eyes. As if he too felt something significant had just been disclosed and his instincts also had gone haywire.
“Will you just come on?” Suzie let out a sigh of sheer frustration. “If we don’t get out of here, she’s never gonna figure out she could be our new mom.”
“Our new mom?” Jeremy gaped.
Suzie slapped her hand over her mouth. She’d clearly just let the proverbial cat out of the bag and regretted it. Cally’s face burned red-hot.
Bryce’s turned purple. “Jeremy, go with your sister. Now.”
The door shut behind them and, after a long moment, Bryce lifted his gaze. “I’m sorry, Cally. I’m Bryce Richards, widower and sole parent of the mischievous moppets, Suzie, Jeremy, and Alyssa, aka Lyssie. If you don’t believe I’m certifiably looney—I wouldn’t bet either way this morning myself—and you’ll give me that pin, I’ll do the honors and spare you a stick.”
Looney, no. But definitely haunted. The dark shadows staining the skin beneath his eyes evidenced he was weary, but the look in them told her far more about troubled Bryce Richards. His trouble ran soul-deep. And, while she hated seeing anyone troubled, it did give her a good feeling to have a kindred spirit. Maybe they could help each other in some way. “Spare me a stick?” she asked, though what she really wanted was an explanation of Suzie’s “new mom” remark.
“You said you always stick yourself.” Dipping his chin in a mock nod toward her carnation, he smiled.
Breathless. Cally couldn’t think of anything coherent to say, so she remained silent. Why did he have this odd, settling and yet unsettling effect on her? Okay, he was attractive, and that look in his eyes made him even more appealing. Being around a man without troubles would just make her feel worse about her own situation. But he was too refined and stuffy for her tastes. Maybe it was the cane, or her sensing he was hurt emotionally and physically. Whatever it was, it made no sense. She’d been through too much with Gregory to be affected like this, to be drawn to a stranger with the same intensity she had been drawn to this house.
Lust, she decided. Even with the beard. She was human and not immune to lust. That had to be it.
Well, if she was bent on lusting, at least she’d chosen herself a dynamite candidate and not a jerk. If he was a jerk, then his kids wouldn’t act toward him as they did. There was some consolation in that. She swallowed hard and passed him the pin and flower.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Puzzled, she frowned. He had a soothing voice, the kind a woman craved to hear whispering secrets. She wished she hadn’t noticed that, or wondered to whom he whispered his secrets. “Confidence?”
“You obviously don’t think I’m looney.” He lifted the pin between his forefinger and thumb. “Of course, the day is still young. Who knows what the M and Ms have in store for me between now and dusk.”
“M and Ms?”
“Mischievous Moppets.”
She laughed, and his smile touched his eyes. Her stomach furled.
He brushed aside the long silk scarf that circled her neck and draped down the front of her blouse to her hips. “I guess I should apologize for Suzie’s ‘new mom’ remark. I’d love to explain it; unfortunately I don’t have any idea what she’s talking about.” He smiled again, but this one didn’t touch his eyes. “More unfortunately, when conversing with my kids, my being clueless is not uncommon.”
That clearly bothered him. Cally liked that about him. She breathed in his woodsy cologne and her stomach went weak. In fact, she liked a lot about him. But she didn’t like liking anything about him. Not at all.
She never reacted to me
n this way. So why to him? What made him different? The lust? Doubtful. Lust didn’t have that kind of power. Maybe recognizing him as a kindred spirit? In his way, she was sure he was as wounded as she. That could be it. But it felt stronger. Like . . . more.
She looked up at him. At his coal-black hair that had just the tiniest strands of silver threading through it at his temples, and into his deep hazel eyes that looked a little amused and a lot embarrassed—no doubt due to the M & M’s antics. His square-cut jaw seemed suited to his face and that neatly trimmed beard suited his personality. Very conservative—a tie and pristine white shirt while on vacation, for pity’s sake?—and distinguished. But, she’d give him his due, he had been just as appealing doused with oatmeal. A grin teased her lips and a potent urge to kiss him blindsided her. Swallowing hard, she looked away.
Bending down, he held the carnation against her blouse. “That looks about right.” He slipped his fingers beneath the material. His knuckles brushed against her bare skin, and skimmed over the medal and gold angel she always wore pinned to her bra strap.
“Sorry.” He lowered his gaze back to the flower. “What is all that?”
The air between them grew thick and heavy. Tense. Her face flamed hot, and she sucked in a little breath. “Just trinkets.”
His eyes danced, silver flecks in wide hazel irises. “Trinkets?”
“A guardian angel.” How utterly humiliating. Why on earth hadn’t she just ignored his question? He wouldn’t have pushed. Instinctively she knew he was too much of a gentleman to push.
“Ah, I see.” He held his gaze fixed on the flower, then straightened her collar. “And the one dangling from the safety pin?”
“Saint Christopher.” She looked at the line of Bryce’s jaw, at his beard. She’d never before liked beards on men, but his struck her as surprisingly attractive. “I mean, it’s a Saint Christopher medal.” What in the world was wrong with her? Saint Christopher likely rolled over in his grave at her saying he was pinned to her bra.
Pressing the pin into the fabric, Bryce paused. “Are you Catholic, then?”
“Baptist. But he’s the protector.” She hiked a shoulder. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.” Actually, she figured she needed all the help she could get.
Bryce chuckled, warm and hearty, and eased out his fingertips from the neck of her blouse. “Angels and saints. Covering all bases. I like your philosophy.”
Gregory had ridiculed her for indulging in “superstitious nonsense.” It obviously wasn’t nonsense to her or she wouldn’t do it. But that hadn’t occurred to him. Acceptance by Bryce felt . . . refreshing. Even welcome. She smiled back at him. “I like your kids.”
Bryce grunted, letting his gaze roam over her face. “They are entertaining.”
Here it came, she thought. Now he’d ask if she had kids and she’d have to say no. Lord, but she hoped her voice didn’t tremble or sound pitiful when she admitted it. Why hadn’t she anticipated his reaction and avoided it?
“Sometimes they’re also crippling.” He motioned toward his swollen knee with the tip of the cane. “But they’re worth it.”
“I’m sure they are.” An empty little ache rippled through Cally’s chest, and a tree-size splinter of envy. He was the sunshine of his home. “Does the knee hurt much?”
“Like the dickens.” He slid her a sheepish look. “On the improvement front, I guess your first impression of me isn’t getting much of an assist from my second one. Not very macho to admit pain, is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Gregory never had admitted to any shortcoming. To any failing. In pointing out flaws, he’d focused on Cally’s. “I think it makes you kind of human.”
“Human. Hmm, I’ll take it. Human is a start—especially after a rough morning. I’ll work on improving it.”
He cared what kind of impression he’d made? He was interested in her? Impossible. Never happen. “Thanks for pinning on the flower and sparing me the stick. It, um, seemed important to Suzie that I wear it.” More than a little curious, Cally added, “I’m not sure why.”
“With Suzie, one can never be sure of much of anything.” Something akin to pain flashed through his eyes. “She’s going through a few . . . challenges.”
“A shame. She’s a beautiful child.” She should be happy and having fun, enjoying her youth. God knew she’d face a woman’s problems soon enough. “I’m sorry, Bryce.”
“Yeah, me, too.” He studied Cally in much the way she had him, and the look in his eyes warmed.
After years of Gregory looking through her, it felt odd to be looked at as a woman by a man again. Feeling exposed and vulnerable terrified her, but that look also ribboned a length of feminine prowess through her that was sheer pleasure. A ribbon she didn’t trust, or think she was ready to feel.
He touched the stem. “Does it look straight to you?” Clasping her shoulders, he turned her to face the cheval mirror.
Cally squeezed her eyes shut, unable and unwilling to look at herself in the oval glass, then turned back toward him. “It’s fine.” She tried to smile, but even to her it felt more like a grimace. “Thank you.”
A flicker of surprise passed through Bryce’s eyes, then faded to confusion. He’d noticed her avoiding her reflection in the mirror, damn it, and the unasked question of why lurked in his eyes. She ignored it. No way was she going to explain. How could a woman explain hating mirrors because of what she’d been shown in them? Caline Tate. A failure. A woman thirty-two with everything she’d never wanted.
“While I’m groveling,” Bryce said, “I want to thank you for the rescue, too.”
Bryce Richards grovel? Highly unlikely. She cocked her head. “Ah, Jeremy and—Mrs. Wiggins, was it?”
“It was.” Bryce flicked at a strand of hair clinging to Cally’s cheek. She flushed beneath his touch, and he seemed a little bemused by it. “She’s already quit once this morning. If you hadn’t stepped in, I’m afraid the frog chase would have earned us a second resignation.”
Cally grinned. She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help herself. “Glad to be of service.” If it was a service. She had to admit, at least to herself, she wasn’t sure. Mrs. Wiggins didn’t exactly strike Cally as a warm and loving woman who much liked kids.
And yet she had Bryce’s three, while Cally, who adored them, had none.
“Did I say something wrong?” Bryce sounded worried.
Cally blinked, forced a smile to her lips, then met his somber gaze. “No. Not at all.”
“That curl is most persistent.” Leaning on his cane, he reached again to her face.
So did she. His hand topped hers, and his palm against her knuckles felt warm. Safe and strong and warm.
Their gazes locked. He took in a healthy breath, then let it out slowly. “You’re very pretty, Cally.”
She swallowed hard, stretching for sense amid rioting emotions. Problem was, he looked and smelled so good, and he sounded so sincere. He couldn’t be sincere, of course, but he sure sounded it and, to her hungry ears, that was sweet nourishment that fed her fasting soul. “I like your eyes.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” Brilliant. Why had she said that? God, what a conversationalist she was these days. She not only sounded stunned, but like an idiot. He probably thought she was a love-starved fool.
Maybe she was. That, or crazy. Maybe both. She was here to find courage—well, the peace she’d felt on making that turn in Bangor. What she wasn’t here for was to find a lover. But from the heated looks passing between her and Bryce Richards, she was definitely going to land in trouble if she didn’t keep her hormones straitjacketed.
Freeing her hand from beneath his, she let it drop, then hang at her side. “Thanks again.”
He looked torn. About what, Cally had no idea, but it was as if he stood at some mental crossroad. After a long moment, his expression softened. Had he reached some conclusion?
“Welcome to Seascape, Cally.” He dipped his chin then brushed her lips with his.
Before she could think, much less move, the fleeting moment had passed: He’d backed away and was limping out of the Great White Room, into the hallway. Her fingertips at her lips, Cally watched him go.
Why had he kissed her? And why did she wish he’d go on kissing her—doing the job right? And why in the world did he seem so familiar? They’d never met; a corpse couldn’t forget a man who looked like him. And from the quickening pace of her heartbeat and the number of times she’d foolishly blushed in the past few minutes, Cally Tate knew for fact she was certainly no corpse.
She traced her lips with her fingertips. After what happened with Gregory, she’d never expected to feel like a desirable woman again. But in the simple act of pinning a yellow carnation to her blouse, Bryce Richards had made her feel desirable—and more. And, though she’d longed for that feeling many times, it’d been a while since she’d dared to admit it to herself. Didn’t it just figure that she’d admit it now, when she wasn’t sure she had the courage to risk feeling anything for any man?
Desirable? Her?
“You are a love-starved fool.” Cally clenched her fists at her sides. How could she do this? Let herself forget so quickly, so easily, the lessons she’d spent fourteen years learning? Forgetting was dangerous. It invited pain.
She jerked the end of her scarf. Tugged it loose from her neck, then shook it out. More pain she did not need.
Chapter 5
Bryce sat on the hallway floor, between the Cove and Shell Rooms. Moonlight spilled across the white Berber rug, leaving much of the hall in shadows. It’d been an eventful, chaotic three days since the oatmeal/frog fiasco at breakfast on Cally’s first day at the inn, but they’d made it through them without Mrs. Wiggins resigning again, and for that he was grateful. Now—he looked at the Shell Room’s door behind which his oldest daughter slept—if Suzie could just get through another night without dreaming, he’d end this day too, a happy man.
