by Nancy Warren
17
“I GUESS I’LL be making the flight of shame in last night’s clothes,” Claire said the next morning. It was worth it, she decided. It had been a night to remember. Her body ached deliciously. She stretched, as languid as a tabby cat in the sun.
Her companion, who could indulge in a marathon night of sex and still not have mussed hair, shook his head. “You won’t. I planned ahead.”
She hit him with a pillow. “Of course you did.”
He chuckled and rolled on top of her, taking her wrists lightly in his hands and pulling them up and over her head. “Your grandmother packed a few things for you to choose from.”
He kissed her mouth, and her chin, then began working his way toward her earlobe.
“She must approve of you to send me off like this and even pack me clothes for the morning.”
“Of course she does. Grandmothers always approve of me,” he said with a touch of arrogance.
“And why would that be? Because you charm them to get into their granddaughters’ pants?”
He could put on a haughty look when he felt like it. She’d noticed it a couple of times. For some reason she found it kind of endearing. “It’s because they instinctively know I’m a gentleman.”
She snorted. “There was nothing gentlemanly about you last night.”
“You complaining?”
She pushed her body against him and nuzzled his neck where a little stubble reminded her he hadn’t shaved. “Not hardly.”
“Good.” And then he began to make love to her all over again. She’d have thought she couldn’t take any more, but to her amazement her response was fast and intense. He sent her over the edge twice before finally taking his pleasure. After a final, lingering kiss, he said, “Let’s shower and get breakfast.”
“I’m so sorry we didn’t get time to enjoy that bathtub.”
His gorgeous dark eyes gleamed. “Next time.”
He must be banking on a lot of overtime if he thought he could afford this place again, she thought, but she merely nodded and headed to the shower with him. At least they could share that.
“I don’t think I can eat after all that food last night,” she said as she was toweling off.
“Okay. You have coffee. I will eat.”
But, of course, her appetite returned with a vengeance when they got to the dining room and she not only smelled fresh coffee but was greeted with homemade muffins and fruit and offered a choice of waffles with various toppings, eggs Benedict with Felix’s homemade hollandaise sauce or fresh muesli.
“You can choose one or all of the choices,” Felix assured her, pouring fresh-squeezed orange juice into crystal glasses.
“I can’t resist eggs Benny,” she said.
Max ordered the same thing and added the muesli as well for good measure.
By the time they set off home, she felt as though she’d been away for a week. She had been thoroughly pampered, well fed and well sexed. No, she reminded herself, thinking of that wonderful moment last night. Well loved.
She glanced over at Max, hard to read behind his sunglasses, as he piloted the aircraft above the ragged lawn of trees.
Was it possible? Did he love her?
They’d only known each other a few weeks. But they’d been intense weeks. They’d worked together, practiced in the rink together, crashed and fought their way through the wilderness together. They’d made love.
No question their physical connection was deep and magical. But was it love?
She felt that she could fall, she may already have been teetering dangerously on the brink, but something stopped her from going all in.
Max was charming, he was generous, he was brave and the most amazing lover she’d ever known. But he was also reserved. She’d had the sense a few times that he was holding something back.
Not surprising, she supposed. A small town in Alaska like Spruce Bay drew all kinds of wanderers, adventurers, escape artists and ex-cons. People who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, make it in the lower 48. She’d put Max in the adventurer/wanderer category. Now she wasn’t so sure. Was he escaping from something?
The trouble with a man who was on the move, whether for fun or due to fear, was that they tended to keep moving.
“You’re thinking deep thoughts,” Max said, giving her the disconcerting impression he’d read her mind.
“Not really.” Then she decided to be honest. At least partly. “I’m wondering how you’ll like Spruce Bay once winter comes. Whether you’ll stay.”
The little plane hit a patch of turbulence and he took a minute to steady them through it before answering, but she’d already seen the moment he went suddenly rigid.
When he turned to her, she wished he wasn’t wearing the sunglasses. She wanted to see his eyes. He said, “I think I could be happy here.”
She let it go, but it wasn’t exactly an answer.
* * *
CLAIRE COULDN’T concentrate. When she stared at her computer screen, all she could see was a vision of Max and her at that amazing wilderness B and B. She couldn’t figure out what was troubling her until she realized that Max hadn’t seemed a bit overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of the place. She’d snuck a peek at the price list in the brochure she’d found in the bedside table and her eyeballs had practically popped out of her head. Then they’d had all those different wines and champagne that had a year on the label. She knew Cristal was a top brand and she might not be a wine connoisseur but she knew that if there was a date on the label it meant vintage, which meant even more pricey.
She also knew Max’s salary.
And yet, when they’d gone to check out from the B and B and she’d discreetly tried to offer him her credit card to split the bill, he’d kissed her and told her it was his treat.
Which was nice. Generous. Fantastic.
But where the hell was Max Varo getting that kind of money?
And if he had it, why was he working for Polar Air?
She liked her theory about near-death experiences leading to one-off spending sprees, but her extravagance had been limited to a few hundred dollars. He’d probably dropped a couple of grand to take her to the fancy lodge.
Okay, it wasn’t enough money to break a man, he’d make that in a busy week, but maybe it was the way he acted, as though he lived like that all the time, that had thrown her.
It was like a sign when she got a text from Laurel that said, Where were u last night? Not here. Need deets.
Talking her confused feelings over with her friend was exactly what she needed. Laurel would talk her out of her foolishness. She immediately texted back: Need girl talk. You free later?
They decided to meet for a glass of wine at Laurel’s place when they both got off work.
Laurel lived in a little house in town. She’d been given the option of living at the hotel when she’d first been offered the job but had firmly turned it down. She’d told Claire that in a small town where everybody gossiped, the last thing she needed was to live in the only decent hotel in town. It was gossip central. So, she’d bought a tiny, solid house that she’d turned into a charming escape. It was as feminine as an issue of Victoria magazine.
When Claire pulled up, having ridden her bike over for the exercise, she had to smile. Sunflowers, delphiniums and other colorful flowers she couldn’t identify made the tiny front yard more like a painting than a garden. She left her bike by the front door and knocked then entered.
“Hiya,” said Laurel, emerging from the kitchen trailed by heavenly cooking smells.
“Are you baking?”
“I begged an unbaked quiche off the chef and I’m throwing together a salad.”
With a flourish, Claire pulled a box of chocolates from under her sweater. “And I brought dessert.”
“No wonder we’re best friends. Come on in. I thought we’d sit out back and enjoy the sunshine.”
She loved Laurel’s house. The living room was painted in a soft lavender color and furnished with chintz sofa
s and far too many cushions. A painting of Victorian ladies drinking tea dominated one wall. Her kitchen was as yellow as the sunflowers outside and a collection of bright pottery jugs lined the windowsill. A female soloist sang out from the iPod dock. Claire thought it might be Fiona Apple, but she wasn’t certain.
“Whenever I come here, I think I should do something with my place,” she sighed.
“Your place is fine. It suits you.”
It was true, of course. The simple, clutter-free space was a snap to clean and everything in it was useful. “But I want this to suit me. I wish I was a girlie girl.”
“And I wish I could fly a plane.” Laurel tested her salad dressing, added more walnut oil. “And that I was thin.” She began to drizzle salad dressing over her salad. “But it’s probably never going to happen. I’m scared of heights and love food way too much.”
Claire smiled. “Maybe we should both be happy with who we are.”
“Good plan. Get the wine.”
She opened the fridge, marveled at the number of items in it, took out a chilled bottle of white, blessed the invention of the screw-top wine bottle and retrieved stemware from the glass-fronted cabinet Laurel had picked up at a flea market.
Outside the kitchen door was a small patio with a metal table and chairs that looked as though they’d come from a café in Paris. Knowing Laurel, they probably had.
A jug of sweet peas sat on the table, which was already set with pretty place mats and cutlery.
“Okay,” Laurel said, sitting down and taking a sip of her wine. “Tell me everything.”
And so she did. She told Laurel about the surprise plane trip and the tiny B and B. And when she began to describe the place, Laurel said, “Wait a minute, I’ve heard of this place. The chef is famous, right?”
“He came from Paris. His name is Felix.”
Laurel nodded crazily. “Felix Gerard. He’s like famous. Story is, he wanted to get away from the snobbery of the Paris food scene. He wanted to provide an amazing, high-end experience in a remote location. He’d source locally as much as possible. I personally think he must have had a breakdown, but he found some venture capitalists to back him and the inn is like some hidden treasure. I heard you have to book months in advance to get in.”
Claire wrinkled her brow. “Maybe he’s not doing so well anymore. We were the only people there.”
“But Luxury Food and Travel Magazine just did a feature on him. Like two months ago. You were so lucky to get in.”
That strange feeling of discomfort came over her again.
“Tell me about the food.”
Food? “But I’m having relationship issues.”
“I know that, and I’m going to be the most supportive friend ever, but please, tell me about the food first.”
So she did. Laurel moaned like a woman in the throes of the best sex of her life. “Those mushrooms. He grows them himself. I hope to go there one day before I die, and you get whisked off at a moment’s notice.” She shook her head. “Okay, tell me the rest. Was there sex? I need to know about the sex.”
“It was great.”
“Okay. In relation to the food? And we know that Felix Gerard’s food is a ten.”
“Then the sex was a twenty.” Her body tingled at the mere thought of the sex. “Maybe twenty-five.”
Laurel stared at her. “I’m going to need more wine.”
And then they laughed, and she started to relax. As they enjoyed their dinner Claire realized how lucky she was that Laurel had moved to Spruce Bay to take the job as innkeeper.
They dug into the quiche and salad and the bread steaming in the basket—also courtesy of the inn kitchen—then Laurel said, “So, the place was amazing, the sex legendary. I don’t think you’re here for bragging rights. What’s with the deer-in-the-headlights look?”
And that, Claire thought, was why they were best friends. Not only because they were two single women of approximately the same age with similar sensibilities, but because they got each other. She sighed. “I don’t know. Everything’s great except I’m getting this funny feeling that he’s keeping something from me.”
“You think he’s married?”
“No!” The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. She thought about it for a second. “No. It’s not that. It’s more that he’s not entirely open.”
“Sweetie, if you peeled open all of us who live here you’d find plenty of secrets. Look at me. I didn’t move here for the climate.”
“I know.”
Even though they both knew the story, Laurel told it again. “I was living in Atlanta, running a boutique hotel. Part of a chain. They were grooming me for bigger things. Then I fell in love.” She shook her head. “Never fall in love with a chef. Fickle artistes who think they’re God’s gift to food, never mind to women.” She picked up a stem of arugula off her plate and nibbled absently. “He wooed me through food. He absolutely wooed me with food.”
“I know.”
“And then he dumped me for a waitress. A size-two Jersey girl with bigger boobs than brains.”
“I know,” she said soothingly.
“I may have said a few things to him that I shouldn’t have, but I was so angry, so hurt.”
“I know.”
“And when he told management it was him or me—” she glanced at Claire as though she were pulling herself back into the present with an effort “—they chose him!”
“I know.”
“So, when I looked for jobs I went for the ones that were the farthest geographically from Atlanta.” She put the nibbled leaf back on her plate. “And Spruce Bay won hands down.”
“Do you regret coming here?”
“First winter, I thought I’d die. I had that SAD syndrome people talk about. Not enough sun. And the relentless cold and snow was killing me. I figured I’d be out as soon as I could find another job. But somehow, this place got under my skin. I met people, including you. I run the hotel. And sure, I’m not being groomed as an executive in a chain of properties, but I like it here. I can’t imagine moving.”
“I know. It’s that first winter that decides whether you’ll stay or go.”
Laurel shifted in her seat. “Wow, I sure made that all about me! I guess my point was that we all came here for a reason. It’s not exactly on the beaten path, you know? I’m here because of heartbreak and corporate backstabbing, you’re here because of a family tragedy. Max probably has reasons he’d rather not share with you. So long as he’s not running from the law or something, does it really matter?”
“But why doesn’t he tell me? We’re intimate. We’re sleeping together. He knows how I ended up here because I told him. We nearly died in a plane crash. We hiked out together, survived in the wilderness together. What is it that he can’t tell me?”
“Didn’t you do a background check when you hired him?”
“We’re not exactly the CIA. We checked references, of course, his flying qualifications. His flying hours. He doesn’t have a lot of Alaska hours but he’s got thousands of Pacific Northwest hours which is close enough.”
Laurel stacked plates and rose. “Did you do a Google search on him?”
“Do a Google search on him? No. He’s a pilot, not a celebrity.”
“You’d be surprised what a search engine can turn up. Look for him on Facebook? Twitter?”
She shook her head. “He’s not on LinkedIn,” she said, pleased she could at least offer that. She only knew because Lynette had asked him.
She rose, gathered the rest of the dishes and carried them into the kitchen. Laurel was loading the dishwasher.
Laurel said, “Take the rest of the wine and the glasses into my office. We’ll see what turns up on the computer.” She shot Claire a glance. “If you really want to know.”
18
DID SHE WANT to know? Did she want a search engine to uncover whatever secrets it held about Max? She hesitated for a moment, then decided. Of course she did. Maybe if she’d been less trusting of Fr
ank Carmondy she wouldn’t have ended up swimming to shore across a freezing-cold lake while the plane she’d been piloting sank like a rock to the bottom.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m in.”
“We may not find anything,” Laurel warned, “but it’s worth a shot. I’m pretty good with a computer. I dated a techie guy when I did my business degree. He taught me a few things.”
In a couple of minutes, Laurel had brought the chair from her dressing table into her home office and placed it beside her ergonomic office chair. The pair sat side by side while Laurel typed some letters into a search engine.
Claire waited, feeling an odd weightlessness in her belly. She wanted to know what the internet could reveal about Max Varo. She didn’t want to know.
It wasn’t too late to stop Laurel. To tell her to keep her typing fingers to herself. But she didn’t. There was probably nothing there. And if there was, she wanted to know.
“You see? What did I tell you? Everybody’s searchable,” Laurel said with triumph.
She leaned forward, half eager, half dreading. And blinked. It wasn’t Max Varo she was looking at on the screen. It was herself. “Where the hell did that come from?” she cried. The picture was taken at a Fourth of July picnic and fireworks display at a local park. In the photo, she was stuffing her face with potato salad. She’d imagined that if anyone had ever bothered to look for her on the internet they’d have discovered her picture on the official website of Polar Air. Not that some horrible snap of her stuffing her face would pop up. Even worse, there was a caption. Local bush pilot Claire Lundstrom fuels up for her next flight.
What if Max did the same sleuthing she and Laurel were doing? Was that the impression she wanted him to have of her?
“Must be from the local paper. I guess they uploaded a bunch of candids.”
Claire groaned. “Make it go away.”
With a few clicks, Laurel did. Then she typed Max Varo’s name into the search engine.
“Hmm. Not much. And most of that is Spanish. Oh, wait, here’s a Max Varo with a Facebook page.” But when she clicked on it, the site obviously belonged to a teenager.
