by Nancy Radke
She still had a contract. She clung desperately to that fact as her mind reeled from the unexpected assault. She would get some payment if it was broken. But it had to be Mrs. Van Chattan who broke the contract, not Jennel.
She had to stay here, she realized, feeling her face drain of color, or else she’d be out everything. Had she been suckered two jobs in a row? She didn’t even have enough money to return to Boston. Her gaze swung up to meet his.
“A shock, huh?” His attitude softened, his voice quieted as he viewed her distress. His eyes changed from green granite to emerald, the color of sea waves in sunlight.
“Yes.” Her tears swelled at his gentle inquiry, and she hastily wiped them away. It proved easier to stand firm when he was angry with her.
Looking uncomfortable, he attacked his steak with knife and fork. “Too bad. But it’s gotta be faced.”
Jennel observed him silently, wanting to scream a denial at everything he had said. What should she say? Do? He seemed moved by her tears, but she had never resorted to those types of tactics.
When she remained silent, he stopped cutting and gestured with his fork. “Eat up. You’ll feel better with some food in you.” As if to reinforce his suggestion, he took a bite.
She preferred fish and salad, but since this “meal” was already fixed, with her salad makings sitting untouched on the counter, Jennel picked up her knife.
The steak looked as appetizing as it smelled. Trying not to penetrate the paper underneath, she cut it carefully. It ran red, making her shudder. She picked it up and carried it to the stove, returning the pan to the burner. Her fries were soaked pink and a little too salty, but she ate those hungrily while the steak finished frying.
By now her stomach was a tight knot. She didn’t know how well the food would digest...if at all.
Feeling betrayed, Jennel stared at the sizzling meat.
What was going on? Her mind raced over her dealings with Mrs. Van Chattan. The lady had never mentioned Zack in all the time they’d spent looking over ideas and furniture and talking about Mrs. Van Chattan’s requirements. She’d given Jennel lots of information about the island and about her husband, John, and herself, but never Zack. Why not?
Forced to attack since retreat was cut off, Jennel glanced over where Zack was lounging in his chair, eating unhurriedly. She began to explain as calmly as possible.
“I can’t leave because I’ve already started the job, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Van Chattan had pictures of the house, and I made preliminary sketches that she approved. I even chose some furnishings in New York to compliment some of her pieces.”
He waved his hand disparagingly, his mouth tightening. “That’s too bad, but you’ll have to leave. There’s no way you can do what’s planned—”
“I could hire laborers also,” she interrupted, knowing even as she said it that she would have to hire someone more skilled than a laborer. She would have to hire someone with Zack’s knowledge and that would be impossible. Anyone with his knowledge would already be working for himself or for a company. And Zack had a contract, too.
He choked on a laugh. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
“I just told you.”
“Honey, you don’t even know how to start a generator.”
Jennel bit her lip. “I’d have it figured out in time.”
She was angry again, a cold hard anger that refused to see anything amusing in her present state. Zack was no longer the most presentable man she had met. The boatman, Mr. Brekley, had been much nicer, even if he had stranded her.
“After you pulled your arm off trying,” Zack retorted.
“I’d have managed,” she defended herself, showing a brave face even as she wondered: didn’t generators have batteries?
He grinned. “Like you’ve managed everything else since you’ve been here. Admit it. You were a wreck when I arrived. You’d better go back home to Boston.”
He looked so sure of himself, so amused by her claim, as if she was some schoolgirl fresh out of high school.
Well, she’d been out of high school a long time.”I just need to revise my plans.”
“You need to do more than that. John wants the dining room enlarged into the living room, which involves knocking out a wall. I’m to install a bathroom off his study and put in a new living room with large greenhouse windows—guaranteed not to leak. He also wants a whirlpool and a sauna inside. Do you know how to build them so a house isn’t filled with steam?”
“No. I’m an interior decorator, not an architect. My talents are different than yours.”
“Quite. I both build and design.”
His unyielding attitude reignited her temper. “People like my work. I’ve never had a dissatisfied client.”
“Great...but there’s no room for you here. John asked me to oversee everything, even the furnishings. My designs don’t need another interior decorator.”
“You think not?” she challenged.
“I know not. It’s totally unified. So why not call it off and forget about this job? There’s plenty of others out there.” Having summarily disposed of her, he finished his steak and potatoes and dumped the paper plate into a plastic garbage sack. Opening the refrigerator, he began to put his perishables inside, his jerky movements betraying the agitation of his thoughts.
Turning off the burner, Jennel returned to the table with her well-done steak and cut it thoughtfully, fighting down a swelling fury at his off-hand dismissal. She had her contract, too. And there weren’t many jobs out there...without a line of credit to fall back on.
Jennel had checked out three other jobs. Those customers all wanted to make a down payment and then pay again after most of the work was done. Just like the man who had filed bankruptcy to avoid paying her. With no credit, she couldn’t work that way.
Only Mrs. Van Chattan was willing to pay up front...and pay well.
The steak, tender and a prime cut, helped fill her hollow empty stomach. She did feel better. Almost fighting fit. Ready to challenge him again.
It was perhaps time to change tactics. It wasn’t the best military strategy, but if you couldn’t beat ‘em, you joined ‘em.
“Would you show me what you planned?” she asked with forced cheerfulness, her lips forming a cardboard grin. “I’d like to see it.” Afterwards she could show him her sketches. Maybe they wouldn’t be too far apart.
“Okay.” He agreed easily enough. Clearly, he wasn’t afraid of the competition. “I have to get some measurements off them anyway—and you’ll be able to see the size of this job.” He sauntered out, confident and at ease, taking his large flashlight.
Jennel refrained from throwing something after him and slammed her fist against the table instead. She forced her teeth to unclench long enough to finish the steak in her mouth, and choke it down.
His departure removed the need to act braver than she felt. Her backbone went limp and her shoulders sagged. With head bowed upon her hands, she closed her eyes tightly, as if to keep things out a little longer.
The worst thing was to have come so totally uninformed. It was like packing a swimsuit and flippers for a vacation at the beach and finding yourself stranded on the ski slopes. If only she could show Zack how good she was. Then maybe she could talk the good-looking beast into turning over the interior work to her. Maybe she could even fan that flicker of interest into something stronger. At least strong enough to let her stay and do the interior.
Who was she trying to kid? He didn’t want anyone messing with his house. He had his contract...and probably a smart lawyer in tow.
She had run into the type before—her father and several others. Their way was always the only way, their opinion the only opinion. Self-possessed, assured, decisive. Secure in their strength, unafraid of taking life in their hands and wresting whatever they wanted out of it.
Well, she wanted this job. He wasn’t going to take it away from her—as long as she had her c
ontract—whatever he thought. Since hers was of a later date, that might make it more binding. She had to figure out some way to stay here and finish this job.
Zack was still shaking his head as he approached his boat. Miss Society certainly had a few sparks in her, he thought as he patted Brutus on the head. Imagine, claiming she was going to re-do that house. She hadn’t the foggiest idea what the project entailed.
He descended the ramp easily, noticing that its slope was less steeply pitched. The incoming tide had raised both boat and float closer to the level of the dock. If she had left her shoes on the beach, they would have floated away by now.
They were nice shoes, and he could understand why she had not wanted to lose them. It took time to find a pair you really liked. He should have given her more information about the tide when he first mentioned it, but he never thought she’d take off like she did.
Jennel appeared to be an impetuous creature, which was probably why she’d landed herself in this fix. It was unprofessional to take a job without knowing everything about it.
She carried herself with an air of authority that challenged him. She didn’t question his professional ability—she was way over her head there—but him as a man. He felt driven to prove himself to her, to protect her; and she probably didn’t need protection.
Intriguing. She stirred his emotions— first one way, then the other. She was a feisty little thing. He admired her spunk even as he denied her right to be here.
He didn’t doubt her claim to be an interior decorator. She was artistic from the top of her lofty coiled hair to the tips of her slender toes, the nails painted to match her suit. Even her outfit proclaimed her creativeness. That snazzy suit exuded high fashion. Not exactly the right clothes to be wearing on this island. Proud as a queen.
He brought himself up short. Tony’s wife, Jennifer, had been like that; one of the original Mayflower descendants, determined to get her own way. Their names were even similar.
He’d best never forget Tony’s lesson, especially when he looked into Jennel’s indigo blue eyes; luminous eyes that changed expression as fast as the flicker of light upon moving water. Eyes that flashed defiance. Lips that held his gaze when she moistened them while eating, arousing his desire to kiss them. She was temptation personified.
He needed to step carefully, or she would seduce him into letting her take over his job. Or part of his job. It would be tempting to allow her to decorate the house just to keep her around, but Jennel would be a distraction. Furthermore, he owed it to his lifelong friend, John Van Chattan, to present him with his best work.
When Zack had needed help meeting some pressing bills, John had invested in his company. It was at a time when John was just getting started, too, and didn’t have the kind of money he was making today. Friends like him and Clyde were hard to find, even if they did persist in vetting your girlfriends.
Entering the boat, he stowed away the tidal chart and map of the islands he had used on the way over. A quick check around showed all was shipshape.
Picking up his metal carrying tube, he paused, listening to the radio traffic. Why hadn’t Clyde mentioned dropping off Jennel? He had brought the Van Chattans over with the real estate salesman, so he knew the condition of the house. Clyde also knew Zack was fixing it up.
Was it possible he’d forgotten to mention her? With her looks? Zack doubted it. What was his friend up to?
Activating the radio, he tried several times to call Clyde. No answer. It wasn’t important. But since Clyde had brought her here, maybe Clyde should be the one to take her back. He left the boat to walk back up to the house, stopping to throw some sticks for Brutus.
The island night was peaceful. He enjoyed being alone, just him and the dog, relaxing after a busy day. He’d been looking forward to spending some long, quiet evenings by himself after his crew left, fishing. Then, when his mind was at ease, he’d do some preliminary designs for a new client.
He threw another stick, realizing as Brutus charged off into the darkness, that the pleasure had gone out of the simple game. What Zack really wanted to do was go back into the old house and see Jennel again.
He had to send Miss Boston home.
Jennel finished her steak and looked down at her sore feet. They were so cold they were almost numb, but she decided against putting on some warm socks until she had washed off the dirt. Although reluctant to walk around barefoot on the dirty floor, she didn’t want to stay sitting still, looking like a whipped puppy when Zack returned.
He had cooked the food; therefore she’d wash up, refusing to give him complete possession of the kitchen.
All that needed washing was the fry pan and the utensils. After putting away her perishable goods in the rapidly cooling refrigerator, she dug out her small box of detergent and washed the knives and forks in the sink, using cold running water. The water on the stove was almost to a boil and would work for rinsing. The fry pan was small but heavy. As soon as the cold water touched it, it split —instantly—from lip to lip, separating into two pieces just as Zack re-entered the room.
She stood there, mouth open, holding on to the half with the wooden handle while the other clattered into the sink, the sections divided as straight and clean as if sliced with a sharp knife.
Shock mingled with dismay. What had she done?
“Don’t you know anything?” Zack exploded for the third time that night—and this time the loudest of all. “You never put cold water on hot iron!” Angrily he shoved past her, pushing her aside, and turned off the tap.
“But—”
“Lady, the sooner you’re out of here, the better.” His voice was heavy with disgust as he appraised the damage. “My favorite pan!”
“But...” She hesitated, unable to think of anything to say. It had been off the burner all the time she was eating; it should’ve cooled off long ago. She tapped the metal gingerly and found it still hot. “I’m sorry...”
“Sit down! And dry your hands!” He thrust a towel at her, having a hard time getting the words out without biting them off. “You can look at these. I’ll stay with you, so they’ll survive.”
She stopped feeling sorry about the pan. “I know how to take care of house plans, but I’ve never washed a cast iron skillet before. How was I to know it was so sensitive? My aluminum pans aren’t.”
“Cast iron holds the heat.”
“I’ll buy you another,” she snapped, drying her hands with vigorous thrusts of the towel as she tried to dampen down the anger she felt at herself. She was doing a wonderful job destroying any favorable impression she might accidentally have made.
“Don’t bother. I just want you out of here. Look at these if you wish.” He threw a long carrying tube upon the clean table.
Jennel’s comeback left her mind when she saw the plans. Pages and pages of plans. The house, the swimming pool and cabana, a guest house, and workers’ quarters. Even a boat house...all with the same roof lines, the same rugged design.
As he unrolled the plans in front of her, her artist’s eye was caught by the graceful loveliness of the house. This was a home she could live in. Right away she could spot the underlying structure of the old house, left intact, yet re-shaped into a more useful entity. The Victorian lines were left, the ugly additions swept away. The small covered swimming pool nestled between the house and the sea, dropped a level so that it wouldn’t obstruct the view.
Carefully she looked through the rest of the plans, examining each section closely. No wonder he was proud of his work. Zack was extremely talented. He was going to make this house and its surroundings into someone’s prize-winning dream home.
But not Mrs. Van Chattan’s.
That was the only thing wrong with his design. Jennel told him so, being as blunt with him as he’d been with her.
“You’ve designed a beautiful home, Zack, but this is a man’s home, from its roof of cedar shakes to the basement gun room. There is no place in it for someone as totally, uncompromisingly feminine
as Mrs. Van Chattan.”
“Anyone could live in this,” he declared, his voice rising in protest, and for most clients his statement would have been valid.
Jennel gazed directly at him, her carefully chosen words underlining her deep conviction as she spoke, slowly and concisely. “I could and you could, but not Mrs. Van Chattan.” He started to protest, and she stopped him with a question. “Have you ever met her?”
“No. No, I haven’t, but John said she’d like it.” He met her look with the bold confidence of one who’s been designing successfully for years. He didn’t need her to tell him about houses. “This is exactly what he ordered. For both of them.”
“Then he doesn’t know her very well,” she argued confidently, her tone daring him to contradict her.
“And I suppose you do?” He was becoming sarcastic, his heavy brows almost meeting as he scowled at her. He picked up the tube, ready to re-roll the plans.
She stood her ground, knowing herself to be right. “Yes, and don’t look so skeptical, Mr. Waylan. That’s my greatest area of expertise.”
“So?”
“So I can tell what people really want— sometimes even when they’re telling me the opposite. I’ll show them what they asked for, then show them what I think they really want; and they fall in love with it, every time.” Jennel wasn’t bragging...it was a proven fact...and her voice said so.
Zack pondered her statement but did not question it. “And Mrs. Van Chattan?” he asked, frowning skeptically, viewing her from half-lowered lids. His voice was cautious, as if he knew he wasn’t going to like her answer.
She knew he wasn’t. Jennel smiled within herself, almost gleeful as she rammed her point home: “Pink lace and satin pillows.”
Grimacing as if from a bad taste, Zack lowered his weight onto the edge of the table, carefully avoiding the spread out plans. “Ugh!” His broad forehead wrinkling in dislike, his dark hazel eyes set in a scowl. “No way! That’s completely opposite from his requests.”
