With Strings Attached (Gabriola Island)

by Vanessa Grant

  With Strings Attached

  Gabriola Island, Volume 1

  by Vanessa Grant

  Published by Muse Creations Inc, 2013.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  When Love Returns - Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  In memory of my beloved uncle, the artist John Keast.

  Copyright Page

  Copyright 1991, Vanessa Grant

  Copyright 1998, 2013 Vanessa Grant, Muse Creations Inc.

  Original hardcover edition published in 1991 by Mills & Boon Limited

  Internal flourishes licensed from BigStockPhoto.com

  Cover design © Angela Oltmann, angieocreations.com

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents in this book are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Chapter One

  Happy birthday, Molly. The cabin’s yours, but get out there right away. I’ve left Trouble with food for a day or two, that’s all.

  Pack up on a moment’s notice? Drive three thousand miles in a tearing hurry to rescue a cat! No one but Saul would have the nerve to demand such a crazy favor. No one but Molly would be gullible enough to agree.

  “A birthday present,” Saul had announced, his voice quick and persuasive on the telephone. Impossible to resist his enthusiasm as he rushed through instructions. “Get to the lawyer today and sign the papers. I’ve sent them express. Then pack.”

  Molly remembered every one of the five times her father had marked her birthday with extravagant gifts. Gifts, growled Aunt Carla, instead of apologies for the other times when he had simply forgotten.

  He had telephoned the day after her twenty-sixth birthday. From New York, he said rapidly, although the last she heard, he had been somewhere on Canada’s west coast, deep in preparation for his September showing in Paris.

  Sitting in her Ottawa apartment, Molly had closed her greenish-blue eyes and listened to his voice, had felt pleasure sweep over her. She hadn’t been expecting a birthday call, certainly not a present. She had learned years ago that anticipation too often led to disappointment. She knew her father loved her, knew it was not realistic to expect a great artist to have everyday virtues. Enough that Aunt Carla and Uncle Gordon had invited her to dinner at their apartment in Toronto; that Thomas, the man she had been dating lately, had brought flowers.

  Incredible that Saul should call, beyond belief that he should casually- over the telephone- tell her he was giving her a home, a place of her own. A dream.

  It had taken Molly six days of driving, sleeping in rest areas and economy motels, to reach the Pacific Coast. Driving forever, it seemed, but finally the coast had come. Vancouver. The water. The ferry. Journey’s end. Soon.

  Sitting in her gold van on the car deck of the ferry, Molly finger-combed her shoulder-length black curls and waited for the ramp to go down on Vancouver Island.

  An adventure.

  She remembered other adventures, excitement tumbling into worry and disaster. Aunt Carla could be right in her assessment of Saul’s latest crazy request. One telephone call from her father and Molly’s life was turning upside down. Nothing new in that. Her earliest memory was of Saul standing in the middle of a rented studio somewhere, waving a sable paintbrush and announcing that Paris would be a good place to live. For a while.

  Molly thought she must have been about five years old that day, all wide eyes and black, curly hair. She knew she was seven when they went to Athens. Eight in London. Eleven in Mexico City. Twelve in Montreal, where it all stopped.

  In Montreal, Aunt Carla had descended on Saul and bullied him into sending his daughter to a regular school, a regular home- Aunt Carla’s.

  Thank God for Aunt Carla and Uncle Gordon, thought Molly as she drove her van down the ferry ramp and onto Vancouver Island. Without the stability of Aunt Carla’s home, Molly might never have learned that life could be steady. Peaceful. Geographically stable.

  So why, after fourteen years of living quietly first in Toronto, then in a shared Ottawa apartment- why was she letting one telephone call from Saul send her driving off into the sunset? Why, when she had vowed that she would never drive off the edge of the world for anyone again?

  “Take it slow,” Carla had insisted. “Check it all out first.”

  Sensible, if it were not for the cat Saul had left behind. Carla had suggested the S.P.C.A., but the cat was Molly’s responsibility now. It wasn’t that she was counting on Saul’s gift of a home. She knew about Saul’s gifts. Sometimes he took them back; often he failed to pay for them. Molly had given up her share of the apartment in Ottawa, yes, but she could always go back, find another place to live. She had not burned any bridges that couldn’t be re-built.

  Molly knew she must be careful with Saul’s castles in the sky. Careful, but not paranoid. Even if the cabin turned out to be a hovel in a swamp, she would enjoy the adventure.

  She followed the flow of cars without a clue of where she was. Ashore now. Vancouver Island. The City of Nanaimo. Yes, but where in Nanaimo? She could find her way around Ottawa and Montreal and Paris, but this was foreign territory, three thousand miles from home and she was exhausted.

  Last night she had stayed at an economy motel on the outskirts of Vancouver, had spent the night listening to a screaming battle in the next unit. When dawn came, she had packed up and gone for breakfast at an all-night restaurant, then found a drive-in tourist information centre. She needed information on how to find Gabriola Island and Saul’s cabin.

  Her cabin now.

  She had tried to sleep on the ferry, but there had been a rough chop and Molly had felt vaguely nauseated all the way from the mainland to Vancouver Island. Where was Saul now? Why could he not have waited? Met her?

  Six days driving and if Saul had not been in such a crazy rush he would have waited for her before he took off for his mysterious destination. Or given her directions. Molly laughed, knowing how impossible that was, how typical the whole thing was of her father. Who else but a crazy artist would demand she come immediately, then completely neglect to give basic instructions? Your house now, Molly, but look after the cat. I’ve got to leave her alone, so please come right away.

  Molly swung the steering wheel to the left and followed a green car through a controlled intersection. Had she just turned onto the Trans-Canada highway? These British Columbians had a nerve, calling it the Trans-Canada highway after interrupting it for a ferry crossing of Georgia Strait. Where the devil were the signs? Could you turn off route 1 to that other ferry? Or- Gabriola Island. It must be an Indian name. Or was it Spanish? Gabriola. Yes, Spanish.

  She knew so little about it. A gulf island nestled against Vancouver Island. Ferry service to Nanaimo. Mild climate. Romantic. Beautiful, Saul had said, but Saul could see beauty in anything. Her home. How could she say no when Saul suddenly offered her a home of her own? And a cat, for crying out loud, when she knew nothing about cats. Trust Saul to call it a gift, and then add that business about the cat, making it impossible for Molly to delay coming.

  A cat named Trouble. Molly’s lips twitched as she drove through the sudden congestion of Nanai
mo’s downtown area. Aunt Carla had been full of warnings and doom, but the thought of a cat named Trouble had made the whole thing seem more like a story out of one of Molly’s children’s books.

  Aunt Carla, always so calm and cool, had turned wild when Molly told her about the house. “You know what he’s like. - The neighbors are about to lynch him, or the place is mortgaged and the bank’s about to foreclose. Or it’s built on a bog and sinking. Molly, it’s a trap!”

  Saul Natham had been a charmer from his infancy, but Carla had memories of more than once when her older brother had left her in the middle of a mess, and himself miraculously free of trouble. Saul Natham was trouble. Always had been. He was also an incredibly talented artist, and Molly’s father. If he wanted to leave her a house and a troublesome cat, Molly knew she simply had to accept. Carefully.

  For all her reservations, she could not resist the growing excitement. Her own home, a log cabin among the trees, in walking distance to the wild Pacific Ocean. A place where she could spread out her easel and Alex’s latest manuscript. No downstairs neighbors to complain about the smell of her paints. No landlord to raise the rent.

  A place in the country. She had no idea why it fascinated her so, knew it was crazy to yearn for the open countryside. Molly Natham, who had never lived in a city with a population of less than half a million! She had no clear picture of life in the open, only a hazy fantasy. Quite probably, she would suffer cabin fever within twenty-four hours.

  Saul’s voice over the telephone had painted a magical picture. No directions, but enchantment promised if she ever found the place. Molly had fantasized herself taking root on Saul’s island with the strange name. Gabriola. Perhaps she would stay forever. The island children would tiptoe past and whisper about the strange old maid who painted dinosaur pictures. Molly would go for walks, smell the evergreens and watch the deer. Her own place. Not a condo eleven stories above the ground, as she had been thinking of buying lately, but a real cabin with real land and real trees, her own plot of dirt.

  She had not told anyone how the dream excited her, not Aunt Carla or Uncle Gordon. Certainly not Thomas, who had stared at her with accusation when she announced she was leaving. She had felt uncomfortable at the look in Thomas” eyes, knowing he would never be more than a friend to her.

  Probably no man would. She was as restrained in her relations as her father was extravagant. She simply did not have Saul’s depth of feeling.

  Better that way. Saul was an extraordinary artist, but his life was all tragedy and ecstasy and crises. Molly needed tranquility, which let out greatness and falling in love.

  Gabriola Ferry. Molly saw the sign too late. She was in the wrong lane and the traffic was too heavy to change. She turned right at the intersection, meaning to double around, but found herself driving uphill heaven-knows-where, with no chance of doubling back. She kept trying to turn right and right again, to retrace her steps, but in fact it took her fifteen minutes to find her way back to the street with the sign.

  Trouble. Six days driving. Eight days since Saul had called. Had he left the poor cat alone? Surely he would have found a neighbor to look after it? Were there neighbors? The cat named Trouble had haunted Molly ever since Saul called. She had thrown her things into the van in a fury of activity. She had called the movers to take the extra boxes to Aunt Carla and Uncle Gordon’s for storage; then made a flying trip to the bank for cash, to the post office to arrange for her mail to be re-directed to Aunt Carla.

  Rushing, worried about a cat she had never met. Trouble was the cat’s name, but if Aunt Carla had her way, Trouble would be Saul’s first name, too. There! The ferry sign. Gabriola.

  She paid her fare and asked for a copy of the schedule. Then she drove ahead into lane number one as she was instructed. She parked her van at the front of the empty lane and studied the schedule. The next ferry would not leave for forty minutes. Commuter tickets. Next time, she would buy a book of them. The thought gave her a pleasing feeling of belonging.

  Would hers be the only vehicle on the ferry?

  Molly locked her van and went into the small waiting room near the ferry ramp. Empty. Obviously mid-afternoon was a quiet time for the ferry. She studied the bulletin board, intrigued.

  Jill-of-all-trades looking for work on Gabriola: milking goats, chopping wood, tending babies...Two ton truck for sale, good work truck with rough body...Zen meditation classes...Poetry readings... Sunday dinner special at a Gabriola pub...student needs ride to 8:00 a.m. ferry from Silva Bay.

  Molly prowled along the bulletin board, reading about apples and fresh honey for sale. A Saturday meeting for islanders to protest a proposed industrial plant. A ratepayers meeting to discuss applications for zoning changes. A play to be performed at the community hall, depicting the settling and development of the Gulf Islands.

  She had come a long way. All the way from Ottawa to an island small enough to put up community notice boards. Molly left the waiting room, her lips curved in a smile. She might even go to that play herself.

  There was another vehicle behind hers now, a white classic Corvette with its convertible top down. Molly felt increasingly aware of the man at the wheel as she crossed the pavement towards her own vehicle. Just the two of them, alone in the ferry line-up. Would she eventually come to know who he was? Would she learn all the islanders by name? How many were there?

  Should she smile at him? Say hello? Or simply lift her hand in a casual greeting? Or nothing? Was it true that country people were friendlier? Fantasy, to think she would come to belong. She looked out over the water, wondered which way the ferry came and whether that island across the harbor was her new home.

  Home? Or a temporary residence? Somewhere in all this there had to be a catch; perhaps even the potential for disaster that was so often entangled with Saul’s impulses.

  It was a gorgeous car, sleek and white and impractical, but it was the man who made her feel flustered- too conscious of herself and restlessly aware of him. He had dark hair, perhaps pure black like her own. His curls had escaped to determined freedom across one side of his forehead. A moustache, black and strong above his upper lip. Sexy, she thought, and then glanced away quickly. His face remained clearly focused in her mind. Tanned skin, or was it naturally dark? Eyes- dark brown? Or black?

  Unbelievable. She had only glanced at him, more at the car really, but her mind held the image. Well, she was an artist, wasn’t she? Yes, but she did not normally wander around taking mental snapshots of intriguing men. If she were a portrait painter, he would make a good subject. Arresting face, dark and strong and...well, sensual. Or was it the mental association of the open sports car that gave that impact?

  She felt his eyes touching her as she tried to jam the ignition key into the door lock. She realized her mistake and found the right key, then tried to insert it upside down.

  “On holiday?”

  His voice was deep, filled with pleasant harmonics. She looked up, straight into his eyes. Too close. Twenty feet away, but it seemed that he was staring directly into her mind. She felt a flush rising and her usually quiet voice came out in a sharp challenge.

  “What makes you think that?”

  Friendly place, Saul had said. Not nosy, which would be a drag, but people were easy to talk to. The man in the Corvette was amused, although it was crazy to think she could see laughter in a pair of black eyes twenty feet away.

  “Your license plates,” he explained reasonably. “Ontario plates. And you locked you car, which isn’t exactly island style.”

  Island style. In the city, she would have frozen him with one cold glance; but she had no idea what you said to a fellow islander. She remembered the easy informality of the bulletin board and felt awkwardly out of place.

  She frowned and tried to pretend he wasn’t watching her, but could not help feeling that he liked what he saw.

  He would be tall. His shoulders were broad under that soft, maroon sweater. Expensive sweater, with an immaculate shirt coll
ar rising neatly above the V-neck, a tie that echoed the sweater. He had good taste, or someone who picked his clothes did. Wife? Girl friend? His lips were curved slightly, waiting to smile. The edge of the off-white collar contrasted against the dark, tanned flesh of his neck. If her fingers brushed along the side of his neck, would his skin feel cool? Or hot and dry? Would it—Stop it!

  “Are you staying on the island?” he asked.

  Ridiculous to feel goose bumps along her midriff from the sound of a voice. “Yes,” she muttered as the key finally turned in the lock of the door.

  She was not going to succumb to the strange impulse to stand here talking to him, asking if he was an islander, why he was driving around in mid-afternoon when he looked a man who was a successful something. Lawyer, perhaps. Or accountant. Doctor. Not run-of-the-mill, whatever he was. Impulsive, she decided, although he would keep it under a stern leash. She swung open the door to her van and nodded in his general direction with deliberate breeziness. Then she twisted her way behind the steering wheel and slammed the door. She felt like a fool.

  She had an uncanny conviction that the stranger knew exactly how peculiar he made her feel.

  When the van held on South Road at the Gabriola post office turn-off, Patrick McNaughton cancelled his own left turn signal and followed.

  As if he had no choice.

  He sucked in a deep breath and forced his grip on the steering wheel to relax. What the hell had gotten into him? Those images playing on his mind from the instant when he first saw her. A woman, a stranger, walking towards him. She had curly, black hair that would twist and cling to a man’s fingers when he caressed it. He had watched and the images had exploded.

  For all he knew, she had a brain the size of a peanut under that wonderful hair. Even if she had the intelligence to carry on a rational conversation, she had shown no desire to do so. Not with him. She had not looked directly at him, just that one startled flash of soft eyes when he spoke to her back on the Nanaimo side. Obviously a city girl, astounded at his casual informality.