by Sally Falcon
“Well, your thirty-ninth birthday isn’t that far away, ya know,” Gina commented, as if she had telepathy. “So you really shouldn’t eliminate too many candidates. That little clock is steadily going tick-tock, tick-tock.” Her sound effect was closer to a time bomb than a clock, to Jessie’s ears. “This Wes person may seem nice now, but maybe he’s a latent ax murderer.”
“You have a very strange mind. I think your Trevor would be a better possibility for that job.” Of course, he does kiss better than Wes, a wicked voice from her subconscious taunted. Jessie shook her head to dispel the idea. Wes had been a perfect gentleman, giving her a mild, proper good-night kiss—highly appropriate for a first date. She really had no right to make a comparison.
“I think you need to exorcise your ghosts before you commit yourself to a serious relationship.” The solemn tone of Gina’s words took Jessie by surprise. “You’re punishing Trevor for something that he hasn’t done. He isn’t the scoundrel that hurt you and, your family, Jessie. And you’re not your mother, either.”
“Pardon?” She was stunned by the turn in the conversation.
“Just something I picked up from one of your dreadful how-to books the other day while you were at lunch. You’ve been concentrating on the qualities of your future husband but ignoring a few chapters that dealt with childhood experiences that can color your—what was it?—oh, color your adult interpersonal experiences.”
“Are you saying that, due to my parents’ relationship, I’ll be a lousy wife and mother?”
“Not at all. If that were true, I wouldn’t have ever gotten married, what with both my parents each being divorced twice.” Gina placed a comforting hand on her partner’s knee. “I think you’ll be terrific at anything you want to do. You are much stronger than your mother. Remember, she let your father come back time and time again. She forgave him over and over because she loved him and didn’t know what else to do. Maybe if she’d given him a good swift kick now and then things might not have been so tragic later. Or maybe not. But I don’t think you would continue in a relationship with a man who showed up only every three or four months just to take all your money and disappear again.”
“This lecture is so I’ll talk to Trevor the next time he calls?” Jessie gave her friend a searching look. They had little time for heart-to-heart talks anymore. When they had been in college together, they had spent many a long night solving the problems of the world as well as their personal problems while dreaming about forming their partnership. Older than most of the students, they had depended on each other.
“Not really. I think this applies to all the daddy candidates,” Gina answered decisively. “I was wary of Jeff when we first met, and I wasted two-and-a-half years before he convinced me to marry him, remember? Now, enough of this gloom-and-doom stuff. It might be all academic about Trevor. He might not bother to call again, and we have measurements to take before we leave.”
Jessie didn’t answer as she rose to her feet. Why should the thought of Trevor giving up depress her? She was well rid of him. It made about as much sense as turning on the pre-game show to the basketball play-off last night. Wouldn’t Gina have a field day with that piece of news? she wondered morosely, following her into the house. Gina knew that Jessie loathed basketball.
Jessie was humming along with an old Chicago song as she pulled her car into the Dalrymple house’s driveway a week later. Though she’d had a long day, she wanted to see if the green floral fabric she’d found this afternoon for the back turret bedroom would be too dark in artificial light. Once that was done, she could head home to take a soothing bath and slip into her sweats.
With a frustrated sigh, she wished that the owners would come home soon. Picking out two or three fabric alternatives for each room was double the work. Did they want contemporary, true Victorian, or a mixture of both? However, she had to admit that delving into the various patterns and styles kept her mind from wandering down dangerous paths.
Still humming, she slung her tote bag over her shoulder and headed for the front steps. She didn’t notice the dim light from inside the house until she reached the porch. Maybe she had gotten her wish. When the front door opened, her heart leaped into her throat.
“Aren’t you going to say, ‘Welcome home, Trevor’?” he asked after she had stared at him for what seemed like a good five minutes. He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his chest. His attitude was one of eager anticipation.
She wanted to smack his cheerful grin off his face but was immediately ashamed of the impulse. It showed only the frazzled state of her nerves where the man was concerned. As Gina predicted, he had stopped calling. Just when she thought it was safe, Trevor was back.
“What are you doing here?” she managed with creditable calm, though a dreadful suspicion was lurking in the back of her mind. How did he always manage to unbalance her in just a few seconds? She could keep her temper with the surliest contractor or an indecisive client, but Trevor Planchet was a different story.
“I live here.” He had the grace to look slightly contrite, and Jessie almost wished she had given in to her earlier impulse. “Don’t you think you should come inside to discuss this? We don’t want to disturb the neighbors when you flail me alive.”
Though she was tempted to turn and walk back to her car, she nodded and walked stiffly past him into the house. Now she knew why Mrs. Langford-Hughes’s offer had sounded too good to be true. In her excitement, she hadn’t asked too many questions, especially after seeing the house. Looking back now, she realized that that had been extremely foolish.
“Well, how do you like it?” Trevor seemed eager to know her opinion, almost appearing nervous as he waited for her answer. He rocked back and forth on the soles of his running shoes with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black chinos. Thankfully he was wearing a gray-and-black shirt under his vest this time.
“It’s a lovely house. Did you do the renovations yourself?” She was reluctant to ask since she’d had so many complimentary thoughts about the unknown owner over the past week. The hard work and good taste that had gone into the renovations seemed at odds with the man in front of her.
“Yes. It took a couple years, but it was worth every bruised thumbnail and sore muscle.” Trevor’s voice was filled with well-earned pride as he absently reached up to stroke the smooth wood of the newel post. She couldn’t accurately read his expression in the dim light of the brass and beveled-glass fixture overhead. “The house belonged to Daddy’s aunt, but she hadn’t lived here for about twenty years before she died, and it had been divided into three apartments. She asked in her will that it be taken care of properly.”
“You’ve done an excellent job. She would have been very pleased with the way the house is coming to life again.” Jessie couldn’t hold back the compliment. No matter what she thought of him on a personal level, she couldn’t fault his work on the old house.
“Thank you,” he answered simply. He eyed her warily, almost gauging her mood before he spoke again. Lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck, he cleared his throat. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “Why don’t we go into the dining room for dinner and discuss what you’ve been working on? Or are you considering throwing that canvas bag at me and storming out?”
She could feel herself flushing at the accuracy of his question. Just once she would like to come out the winner in an exchange with him, instead of feeling awkward and sullen. “Dinner?”
“Just a little something I had brought in,” he murmured, still watching her every move.
Jessie didn’t answer immediately, debating her next move. This commission was a dream of a lifetime, and she’d put too much work into it already to toss it away in a fit of pique. He wasn’t going to have the satisfaction of seeing Jessie DeLord run, but she was going to stay on her terms.
“I’ll stay for dinner on certain conditions.”
He straightened from his relaxed poise against the banister, unconsciously reaching up
to rub the slight crook in his nose. “And they are?”
“This is strictly a business arrangement, even if you did trick me into accepting the job,” she stated matter-of-factly, allowing herself a tiny smile of satisfaction. Finally she was calling the shots where Trevor was concerned, and she liked it. “As soon as this turns personal, we call the whole thing off and you find another decorator.”
If she didn’t know better, she would think he was hurt by her requirements. That was impossible, she knew, for someone with Trevor’s ego. He caught her by surprise when he said, “That sounds fair.”
As she followed him through the dark shadows of the living room toward the dining room, Jessie wasn’t sure that she’d done the right thing. The echoes of their footsteps on the wood flooring ominously reminded her that they were all alone. For a minute she seemed to have finally gotten the upper hand, or had she? Could she have just played into his hands? Knowing it was dangerous to continue that train of thought, she decided to wait and analyze the evening after it was over. She needed to keep her full attention on a smooth operator like Trevor Planchet.
“This is ‘just a little something’?” Looking down at the linen tablecloth spread on the floor, Jessie wondered if he was planning on inviting the entire neighborhood. The cloth seemed to be covered with chafing dishes. The mingling of a number of tantalizing aromas filled her head.
“You remember my sister Tory? She owns Bill of Fare catering where Abby Bush works. Whenever I don’t want to give someone ptomaine from cooking, I give them a call.”
“‘The bachelor’s friend,’” she murmured, remembering one of the catering firm’s advertising slogans.
“That was my idea, since I was always pestering her for special meals when I— Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I get the rolls out of the oven.” He swiftly headed for the kitchen, as if he wanted to be out of sight before she could ask another question.
So Trevor used his sister’s cooking to help him with his conquests. Well, not tonight, she determined with a grimace as she dropped her tote bag beneath the bay window at the far end of the room. What exactly had she gotten into by agreeing to stay? Could she suggest they turn on more lights than just the chandelier with its electric bulbs that resembled flickering candles? If she had any sense, she could leave before he came back. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she wondered why the house hadn’t seemed this empty or intimidating when she was here with Gina.
“Here we go.”
Jessie jumped at the sound of his cheerful voice behind her. Her nerves definitely were not going to survive the evening, she decided, waiting for him to place the basket on the tablecloth. Absently she reached to run her hand over her French plait, smoothing imaginary stray hairs into place.
“Well, I guess we’re ready to dig in,” he stated, rubbing his hands together. “Which corner do you want to sit on?”
“Right here is fine.” She sank to the floor, thankful for her turquoise divided skirt and print over-blouse that allowed her to move gracefully and modestly. By precisely arranging her skirt around her knees she didn’t have to look directly at Trevor for the next few minutes, overcome with the feelings of being a shy fifteen-year-old again.
“Now, what can I tempt madam’s palate with this evening? Some herb chicken or perhaps beef Burgundy?” Trevor intoned in a nasal impersonation of a five-star restaurant’s maître d’, a towel draped over his forearm. Scrambling around on his knees, he uncovered each dish for her inspection. “Or would madam care to partake of the shrimp Creole?”
She found herself laughing in spite of herself at his autocratic parody. Perhaps she could make it through dinner if she just relaxed and didn’t look for hidden meanings. The earlier tension between them seemed to have dissipated since his return from the kitchen. “Were you preparing for an invasion?”
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I decided on one from column A, etc.,” he explained easily, moving toward another covered dish. “Voila! Mixed vegetables.”
“Everything looks delicious, and I skipped lunch today. Just give me a sample of each.” She realized that she was famished, and not just from sparring with Trevor. Accepting her plate, she eagerly took her first bite. The chicken was ambrosia, and she closed her eyes to savor the explosion of spices on her tongue.
After that, there was little time for conversation as they took turns critiquing every dish like two greedy children. Jessie claimed her enthusiasm stemmed from eating microwave entrées all week, and Trevor blamed the stadium food he thrived on while in Washington. Finally, as they put down their plates, they both gave credit to the chef.
“Let me get dessert, and you can show me what you’ve been doing while I was out of town.” In one swift movement, Trevor was on his feet. He retrieved her tote bag and placed it by her side before collecting the dirty dishes.
Jessie slowly wiped her hands on her napkin, glad for something to do while he hovered over her. For the past half hour she’d forgotten about why she was there and how it had been arranged. She couldn’t let her guard down again. A charming smile and amusing conversation were the first steps to heartache, she lectured herself. Grabbing her tote bag as if it was a life line, she began to pull out her sketches and material samples.
“Say, you’ve been busy,” Trevor said easily, placing a tempting confection of emerald green and white in front of her. “Just let me get the rest of this out of the way, and you’ll have my undivided attention.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Jessie murmured, staring at the parfait glass without really seeing it. She didn’t know if she was going to be able to take another bite. Her palms were beginning to sweat and her pulse rate was rapidly increasing. She remembered the feeling from her first presentation in college, when her mind had gone totally blank. This time she wasn’t nervous about what she had created, but about her audience.
“Okay, now let’s see what you have in mind.”
Jessie swallowed deeply as Trevor sprawled on the floor beside her, propping himself up on his elbow just inches from her knees. Until now he had kept his distance on the other side of the tablecloth, remaining impersonal throughout dinner as promised. With him so close, she knew that she was going to do something foolish. So she opened her mouth and began to talk about colors, textures, and contrast, anything to keep from watching Trevor as he spooned the creamy parfait into his mouth.
“No, no royal blue. I had to sleep under a velvet-blue canopy when I was growing up, and I don’t ever want to do it again,” he said decisively a few minutes later.
Jessie immediately began searching frantically in her bag, with no idea of what she was looking for. The image of him lying in bed had come too quickly to mind, and in her imagination, he hadn’t been a little boy. It really didn’t matter if he slept in the nude or not; her only interest was the bed itself and the color scheme. Was it her imagination or had he moved closer while looking over her sketches?
“I like the idea of using a combination of styles throughout the house,” Trevor continued, unconscious of Jessie’s dilemma. “Daddy went a little overboard at the old homestead, especially with some of the massive pieces. I do have some good pieces that Aunt Beth left. They aren’t overly ornate, thank heaven. They’re stored in the garage. Let’s see, there’s a sideboard and dining room table as well as a sofa, some chairs, a washstand with all the pitchers. Oh, and two bedsteads. Too bad Tory commandeered all the Duncan Phyfe for her cottage.”
“How do you feel about a grandfather clock?” Jessie quickly grasped at the first piece of furniture she could think of, one that didn’t go in a bedroom.
“I thought one would look ideal in the entry hall near the staircase. It would draw the visitors’ eyes to the carvings on the banister and the ceiling plasterwork.”
“Terrific. Just let me know when you want to go shopping. My only limitation is nothing too heavy or ornate. We don’t have to stay too true to the period. I don’t want to live in a museum.”
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Though the look in his eyes was perfectly innocent, Jessie’s breath caught in her throat for a second. “You want to go shopping with me?”
“Naturally I want to go along. Why should you have all the fun?” He looked startled that she’d even question his participation. “I’m usually free until early afternoon, so we could work around your schedule.”
Who wouldn’t want to help pick out their own furniture, you imbecile? When in doubt, avoid the issue, she decided, beginning to put her materials in her tote bag. “That really isn’t a consideration yet, so we can discuss it when I’m ready to do the furniture. I’ll see if any estate sales or auctions are scheduled in the next week or so. So, is royal blue the only color you don’t want?”
“I’m rather partial to turquoise and red,” he murmured, spooning more ice cream into his mouth and, as he licked his lower lip, looking pointedly to where the hem of her skirt skimmed her knees.
She didn’t bother to acknowledge that she understood what he was talking about, trying to resist the urge to pull her skirt down to her ankles. It was time for her to make a hasty retreat. She was sure now that he had moved closer. “Well, that should cover everything for now—”
“You haven’t touched your parfait. I made that myself. You do like crème de menthe and ice cream?”
Why had her mother taught her such good manners? She had been told to be courteous at all times. There wasn’t any way she could leave without tasting the parfait and not be ashamed of herself. Reluctantly she picked up the glass and dipped in her spoon for one polite bite. The ice cream had begun to melt, but the creamy mint flavor was delicious.
“Jessie, are you really angry with me for tricking you about the house? Is it really so terrible to work for me?”
His question took her by surprise, especially since he was running his forefinger in a lazy circle over her kneecap. She was trapped where she was. The only alternative was to scramble backward in a crab-style walk, and she refused to look so foolish. She took another bite of ice cream in hopes of lowering her skyrocketing body temperature. It didn’t help.
