by Nancy Radke
SISTERS OF SPIRIT
PURE ROMANCE SET
BY
NANCY RADKE
MAIN MENU
TURNAGAIN LOVE
By Nancy Radke
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Chapter One
“How could that woman call this place ‘livable?’ It hardly qualifies as a place,” Jennel Foster muttered to herself as she dropped her suitcases on the rocky path in front of the old house.
No wonder the wealthy lady had shuddered when she begged Jennel to make the place over. The contrast between the sparkling new, but overstuffed luxury of Mrs. Van Chattan’s New York apartment and this ramshackle old house on a rocky island was beyond imagination. If only the woman had described it better!
“It’s not my idea of a second home, but my husband loves it,” Mrs. Van Chattan had said. “As if he cares. He’ll be working in places like California while I’m sitting on some heap of rock in the middle of Puget Sound.” The woman had dabbed at moist eyes as she continued. “It’s so isolated there. I’ll be stuck in that house for days on end. You just have to make it over for me.”
Mrs. Van Chattan’s many snapshots of the ancient house had not shown the decay. In the photos, the dwelling looked empty and rambling...but livable.
In reality, it sagged with age, mildew and neglect. Fir trees towered over it, one-hundred-fifty to one-hundred-eighty feet tall, blocking out the late afternoon sun. Branches and needles covered the roof with a thick black carpet. To add to the problem, careless builders with a hodge-podge of styles had changed and altered the original Victorian lines through the years.
Just looking at the outside made Jennel want to cry. It was vitally important that this job have no hitches. Yet even as her courage faltered, she welcomed the challenge. It wasn’t her way to tackle just simple projects. The hard ones stretched her creative talents and made her grow as an interior designer.
If she hadn’t been desperate for work, she would never have accepted a redecorating job sight unseen. It wasn’t wise—she knew that—but at the time she felt justified in taking the risk.
Now, five weeks and three thousand miles later, she stared in disbelief at the old house she had agreed to restore. It was worse than her client had described.
Much worse.
Leaving her three bags on the pathway, Jennel tiptoed as lightly as possible up the broken steps and across the wide veranda, both covered with black slime mold.
A quick backward step, to regain her balance, punched a small round hole in the softened wood. She hoped the floor wouldn’t collapse under her weight, light though she was. She hadn’t paused very long during her all-day trip from Boston, and still wore her wine colored traveling suit and new high heels. Her new suit gave her an aura of style and competency—but it was designed for business meetings, not exploring.
She could just picture herself, legs flying out from under her as she skidded across the black mold. So she cautiously tried each step before transferring her weight. If she wasn’t careful she could easily end up on her fanny, putting a much bigger hole in the sagging veranda floor.
“You never do anything halfway, do you?” Jennel asked herself as she sought stronger wood footing close to the wall. It was what her mother always said whenever Jennel impetuously took on more than she could handle.
At least this time she’d get paid. She had accepted a down payment on her last job and used her own money to redecorate it, then been informed that the owner had declared bankruptcy.
In contrast, Mrs. Van Chattan had agreed to pay as Jennel went along, starting with six hundred dollars for travel expenses. Jennel considered the amount generous at first, but after buying two plane tickets and then chartering a boat for the last leg of the journey, she changed her mind. She had just spent the last seventy dollars on groceries, and from now on would have to use her own limited cash until she reestablished contact with her client.
Mrs. Van Chattan had been desperate to get someone to fix it up to her tastes. “You simply have to help me, Jennel. You know what I want. Something like this.”
Her well-manicured hands had fluttered in helpless appeal to indicate pink lace curtains and white satin pillows, French Provincial furniture and white pile rugs. “Please, Jennel. Otherwise, I’ll go absolutely mad.”
“Of course, I’ll do it,” Jennel had assured her. “But you must realize I can’t give you an estimate until I’ve actually seen the house.”
“I don’t care about an estimate. I’ve seen two other homes you’ve done. I know how good you are. I’m willing to pay whatever is needed to make this house into a home for me.”
In the end, they had signed a contract giving Jennel carte blanche to draw on an account Mrs. Van Chattan would set up after she cashed in some bonds. Jennel was to write checks on it, adding a large percentage for commission as she progressed. She had three more days before the account opened. Three days in which to settle in.
What would the interior be like? She was almost afraid to look.
The old front door protested loudly. An odor of decay and mildew engulfed her as she stepped inside the cold damp room.
It confirmed her worst fears. She had advertised herself as a “restorer” of old homes, but this island house was well beyond what she’d ever done before.
She’d have to hire help just to keep the roof from collapsing. A carpenter or two. Probably an electrician to rewire it. It might be best to call in a professional to do a complete structural analysis.
It put her at a disadvantage since she didn’t know anyone on the West Coast; particularly people in construction. Perhaps Clyde Brekley, the Friday Harbor charter captain who had brought her to Turnagain Island, might recommend someone. By the time the carpenters finished the structural repairs, she could have all her designs and supplies ready.
“Both water and electricity are available,” Mrs. Van Chattan had said. “It was lived in up to last year. You’ll be able to stay there.” Based on that, Jennel had planned to make one room habitable for herself, then work around it. But whoever used to live here must have been a hardy soul.
Because Mrs. Van Chattan had said the real estate agent called his office from here, Jennel looked around for a telephone.
“Okay phone, where are you hiding?” she asked the empty rooms, searching for a telltale phone jack.
Upstairs, downstairs...she searched carefully, getting a general picture of the house as she did so, but becoming more and more concerned.
Her search ended where it had begun, in the kitchen.
No jacks. No phone.
The agent had probably carried a cellphone with him. Jennel opened her purse and took out her cellphone. There were no bars showing but she tried dialing anyway.
Nothing. She suddenly realized that Mrs. Van Chattan paid no mind to things, critical or not. No phone, no carpenter.
Then a graver thought struck her. No phone, no nothing.
Without a phone she couldn’t get Mr. Brekley to come back to pick her up. She was stranded on this small desolate island in the northwest corner of Washington State.
With a sense of foreboding, she flipped the light switch up and down.
No response. Still...the bulb could be burned out. Hopefully, she plugged in a small electric hot plate and held her fingers over the element. It stayed cold. The rest of the kitchen used gas, but she had no propane with her.
Fighting back a rising surge of panic, she ran through the house searching for the master switch. Sometimes tenants broke the main circuits as a precaution when a house was left vacant.
The panel was by the basement door, with all switches closed. Frustrated, she flipped them a couple
of times: open and closed, open and closed—a futile gesture; the basement light didn’t respond.
Where did the electricity come from anyway?
Nothing in Jennel’s twenty-five years had prepared her to handle a situation like
this. There had always been people around. Instant communication. Lights always went on when she flipped the switch, telephones always worked...or else a repairman was available to fix things.
The total isolation, treated with the uneasy respect of one who had never lived more than a mile away from someone else, suddenly imposed itself heavily upon her conscious.
Being alone took on a new dimension.
Emptiness, the emptiness of the western United States, meant miles and miles without another soul in sight, and sometimes days spent alone. A friend who had driven across Utah, Wyoming and Montana had described it to Jennel. Distance had suddenly come crashing down upon her during an unexpected snow storm when there had been no one but herself to rely on.
Jennel sympathized, but had not understood. Now she did.
Isolation was a tangible thing. It could be felt...creeping up on a person, under- mining one’s defenses.
Jennel glanced over her shoulder as the old house creaked loudly. If someone had been with her, she would not have noticed. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
She couldn’t allow the isolation to take over her emotions. It would require all her courage and stubborn determination to complete this job.
She’d be warm enough. She had a sleeping bag. Fireplaces stood in several of the rooms...but she’d be unwise to use them until she had all the chimneys inspected. Although she had not planned to literally “camp out,” it looked like that was what she was going to do. Her groceries lay in her boxes of supplies, stacked on the dock.
“It can’t get any worse.”
Cautiously she walked down into the basement and looked around. The musty odor of concrete pervaded the stale air. Spider webs hung profusely, denying her access.
A new surge of panic hit as she spotted a long canvas-covered object on a rack just past the bottom of the dark basement stairs. “Calm down,” she told herself. “That’s too long to be a body...or even a coffin.” She took a step forward, fighting an instinct to run. “You’ve food and shelter. You won’t die of starvation. What else do you need?”
Drinking water.
Not bothering to explore further, Jennel sprinted up the stairs and turned on the kitchen faucet.
Nothing.
Idiot! Why hadn’t she checked things before letting Brekley’s boat leave?
She knew why. Mrs. Van Chattan’s convincing descriptions and her own eagerness to get started had left her feeling secure— neither being an excuse for not checking conditions first. Once again Jennel regretted her impulsive nature.
“It’s like being in the middle of one of those situation comedies,” she groaned wryly, trying to find some humor. “Any minute now and the skunks’ll come in!”
She had to get help. The water around the island was salt, not fresh. Even the thought made her thirsty.
The sun was setting, but with the long twilight there should be light for an hour. Her father was a captain in the navy, so Jennel knew that three of anything was a signal for help. Three fires were too big a project for tonight, but three white pieces of cloth spread high on some rocks might flag down a passing boat. It was worth a try. There seemed to be plenty of them, cruising to and fro across the saltwater ...ships and barges and boats of all sizes.
Opening her suitcase, she yanked out the largest white items she could find: her fluffy bathrobe, a long white skirt, a slip and three white blouses.
Gathering them into a large bundle, Jennel picked her way down the steep bank to the rocky shore, pausing only long enough to take off her high heels to keep them clean. Leaving them by a tree trunk, she picked her way carefully across a narrow band of barnacle-covered rock. It was like walking on broken glass and she almost turned back. There wasn’t much sand on the steeply sloping shoreline.
Not very optimistic, she nevertheless spread the clothing out over three boulders, tucking in the edges so they looked like large white circles.
To the west, across the inland sea, was Vancouver Island. It was barely visible, with the sun setting behind it. There were several ships in the channel, but they were far away.
The ships passed slowly, leaving Jennel staring wistfully after them. Then another boat appeared, a small one, having rounded the southern end of Turnagain Island. It turned and came toward her, close to shore.
It looked as if...maybe...it was coming in!
Leaving her things, Jennel dashed gingerly over the rocks, up to the path and then down onto the dock...a newly built and sturdy dock.
The brand new dock was another reason Jennel hadn’t asked the boatman to stay. It was solid, with neatly jointed sections; bearing the careful mark of a craftsman. If it had been falling apart, she might have been more cautious.
Two enterprising raccoons were doing their grocery shopping in her boxes of supplies, sorting and selecting like all good housewives. As Jennel ran up they backed off, one carrying a package of hot dogs and the other a loaf of bread. She shrieked threateningly at them, but they dodged her easily. Not alarmed by her intrusion, they moved off a short distance to begin their free meal, leaving a mess of scattered food behind.
Worried that the boat might not stop, Jennel concentrated on attracting the owner. Hopping up and down, she waved her hands wildly. “Here! Over here! Help!”
It turned toward her; at least a twenty-six footer enclosed pleasure boat, sleek and white and fairly new. It drew closer, skim- ming the waves, then slowed. The sound of the powerful engine being cut was as calming as quiet music.
A man emerged from the sunbridge, setting out several white protective fenders. He had thick eyebrows and a determined-looking chin...facial features squared but not heavy. He looked to be in his early thirties, and was dressed warmly against the cold March weather.
Used to estimating rooms and sizes, Jennel put the stranger at six-foot three, and his gray windbreaker and heavy wool sweater were at least an extra large to cover the width of his broad and powerful shoulders.
He stared intently at her as she stood beside her boxes of supplies, as if not quite believing what he was seeing. There was also a faint flicker of male interest, a gleam of appreciation which shone past the other emotions.
Again the uneasy sense of isolation swept over Jennel.
She was alone. And her rescuer? He was probably okay. He looked more puzzled than threatening, but looks could be deceiving.
The neatness of his boat allayed some of her fears. The words on the side read “Bayliner Ciera,” a model she had never seen in Boston. She didn’t have any choice, so moved to meet him.
Running down the ramp to the floating section of the dock, Jennel caught the bow line as he threw it. Quickly she tied it to a post, then ran to catch the stern line and tie it also.
The floating dock swayed as the tall man leaped onto it. Behind him came a huge black Newfoundland, who immediately bounded up to Jennel, his head as high as her waist, thrusting his cold wet nose into her outstretched hand.
Comfortable around small dogs, she froze at the size of this one, letting him get her scent for future reference. He was quickly satisfied and put his nose to the dock to investigate its story. With a few barks he put the raccoons to flight and finished off the hot dogs and bread himself.
His master had observed the exchange and now stepped closer, his silence and open stare spurring Jennel into nervous speech.
“Boy, am I glad you stopped!” she stammered.
“Why? What’s wrong? Where’s your boat?” The stranger’s puzzled voice was deep toned and clear. He sounded as nice as he looked. If she had known they grew them like this in Washington State, she would have come out sooner.
“I’m stranded,” she responded, giving him a rueful smile as her hands waved vaguely at the
miles and miles of water around the island. “Stuck!”
Her answer took Zachery Waylan by surprise. When he had first seen her running down the dock, he had assumed her to be another of the trespassers he’d chased off—people who had decided the island was deserted and a good spot for camping. Zack gazed quickly around, then surveyed again the young pretty woman standing alertly in front of him, letting his eyes rove with appreciation over the trim curves of her body.
Miss High Society, he immediately labeled her. Dressed for a country club tea. She stood about five-foot five without heels, but her slender bone structure and touch of high class made her appear fragile and helpless. Her head had a lofty crown of braided black, giving her an appearance of nobility. It wouldn’t be hard to be alone on the island with her. No hardship at all.
Her cheekbones were high and well defined, chin slightly pointed, lips full and generous...but the feature that hit him so unexpectedly was her candid blue eyes, unusual in one with such a dark complexion. They were an intense cobalt blue, shading towards ultramarine; the color of a Steller’s jay. Zack had never seen such a vivid color before. A man could get hypnotized staring into those beautiful blue eyes.
Which was something he’d have to watch. It made her just that much more challenging when combined with the air of helplessness.
Which she probably wasn’t. He’d learned that helplessness was an act some women cultivated to cloud a man’s mind. They were the takers, not the givers, and once a man had given them all he had, they left.
Miss Society had a mouth that probably tasted as sweet as it looked. Gorgeous and appealing. Everything about her demanded his attention and quickened his interest. He wouldn’t refuse anything she had to give, but luckily he’d been inoculated against her kind. He’d be able to stay emotionally aloof.
Her New England accent and pinned up hair made her a carbon copy of the New York socialite who had married an associate of his. It hadn’t lasted, of course, Tony was as much of an outdoors man as he was. In less than two years Tony’s “helpless” wife had filed for divorce, taking all of Tony’s assets before running home to mama.
