by Judith Rolfs
Whitney extended her hand.
“You are most welcome to Crestwood, Ms. Barnes.” Charles wiped his hands down his apron and then shook her hand warmly. His gray hair topped a rugged face resembling Kirk Douglas. He must have been quite handsome in his youth. In a full white apron, Charles certainly looked the part of cook. Strips of succulent grilled chicken the color of honey filled a silver platter next to the salad bowl.
“Whatever you’re baking smells wonderful.”
“Let’s hope the end result measures up. Give me twenty minutes for the croissants to finish, and we’ll be ready.”
“Time enough to give you a quick tour of the upstairs and let you put your things in your room,” Jordan said.
* * *
Out in the yard, Karen shook her head. Jordan’s happiness was important to her. Following his parents’ deaths, looking out for his best interests had become her mission. But Jordan was unpredictable and didn’t always follow her advice. She set the bag of bird feed back into the garden cart with a thud.
Whitney Barnes didn’t impress her as a suitable match. How could she make Jordan see this?
FIFTY-THREE
“You’ll love it here. No radio. No TV. A weekend of total peace.” Jordan led the way to the second floor where he opened the door to a guest room furnished with a white wrought iron bed, walnut dresser, and painted country chic bedside table. Roses the size of grapefruits in shades of pink and mauve dotted the cream-colored wallpaper. Matching valances topped white cotton curtains.
“Lovely,” Whitney said.
“Uncle Charles and Aunt Karen sleep downstairs. Two bedrooms are down, three up, just us up here. I’m across the hall.” He winked in Whitney’s direction.
Teasing, right? He better be. A flutter of misgiving about the wisdom of this much privacy passed through Whitney.
Jordan balanced her bag on the antique luggage rack then pulled the door shut behind them. He pulled Whitney close and kissed her lightly on both cheeks. “Now you’ve been properly welcomed.”
“Whoa...” She drew back.
“I didn’t want to do that in front of Aunt Karen. Can you believe I’m still shy at my age?” Jordan shrugged.
In spite of her discomfort, she laughed. “No, not for a second.”
Jordan smiled, dimples flashing. “Relax, you’re safe.”
Whitney’s laugh released her nervousness. “It takes a bit to get used to your spontaneity, Jordan.”
“And impulsivity? Okay, I admit it. I’ll give you a few moments to settle in. Lunch will be in the sunroom. Come down when you’re ready.” He strode off.
Whitney smiled at his enthusiasm and was glad she’d come after all. Where did all Jordan’s exuberance come from? He acted like a ten-year-old boy at a carnival. She felt energized in his presence. Maybe she could have a few lighthearted days after these past difficult weeks—year, she corrected herself.
Whitney couldn’t help but compare Jordan with Rich. Rich was charming, calm, and focused. Jordan was dashing, fun, and exciting. She enjoyed both men and would be hard pressed to decide which she liked better.
Washing her hands and splashing water on her forehead refreshed her. She joined the group in the sunroom. Huge white wicker chairs framed blue and yellow plaid cushions. Floral pillows in rose and yellow floated on top a daybed, inviting the eye. Light streamed in from four skylights and three walls of windows, giving the impression of sitting in an indoor garden. The wicker table set with silverware and pink and yellow checkered table linens beckoned.
“Karen, your home is lovely. This sunroom belongs in House and Garden magazine.”
“You’re very kind.”
They took seats around the fully laden table. Charles appeared bearing a basket of fragrant croissants. He settled himself at the head of the table and announced a toast. Everyone lifted ice tea goblets. “To our guest. May your rest be restorative and your play energizing.”
“How sweet.” Whitney directed her gaze at Charles and smiled.
“Yes, he’s certainly that,” Karen said, putting down her glass.
Whitney paused before picking up her fork to say a silent thanks to God for the food and her safe travels. She knew better than to expect a group prayer.
Between bites Charles inquired about how she and Jordan had met. Jordan eagerly described their first encounter at the wedding.
“But I already knew your wife, coincidentally,” Whitney added. “I saw her for counseling before I ever met Jordan. Perhaps you knew that?”
“No,” Charles glanced at his wife. “Karen doesn’t discuss her clients.”
Whitney flinched. “I know. I thought maybe Jordan had mentioned it.”
“Sounds like you resolved your issue quickly,” Charles said.
“Of course,” Jordan beamed. “Aunt Karen’s good, Uncle Charles. You know that.”
Good? Vague but truthful enough. “Yes, she is.” Whitney agreed. She noticed Charles never looked at his wife, nor she at him.
Karen glanced her way before lowering her eyes to her plate. “I’m sure Whitney would rather talk about lighter issues. Why don’t you tell her about our lake, Charles?”
“Delighted.”
Whitney received a short course in the lake’s size and history as she munched radishes and carrots. What a charming man Charles is. She observed his penchant for detail.
A brief pause in the conversation occurred when Jordan cleared the croissants and salad while Charles fetched a platter of fruit and her sugar cookies, and Karen refilled their iced teas.
Charles settled back in his chair and resumed the conversation. “Your work sounds intriguing, Whitney. Good reporting provides a valuable service to the community.”
Whitney smiled. “I enjoy it.”
“As I do mine,” Karen popped in.
Jordan sipped his tea. “Aunt Karen helps everyone. She’s the most compassionate counselor anyone could have, thanks to me. Seriously, I take credit for it. She got plenty of practice at patience when I pushed her buttons as a kid.”
Karen’s face broke into a smile. “You were an angel. Although, I admit I spoiled you terribly, but it was such fun.”
Whitney observed she didn’t say “we.” What had Charles’ role been in the child-rearing process? She caught herself staring at him. He looked away and rose, offering to stack the dishes. “Then I’m off to putter in my wood shop. Whitney, I’m in the building behind the garage, and I love to show off my headquarters. You young-ins come see me later, if you like.”
“Uncle has every conceivable tool,” Jordan said.
“Not quite—that’s an exaggeration—but everything I need at least.” He excused himself.
Karen didn’t look up or bother to say goodbye to her husband. Whitney sensed he seemed sad.
“I’d love to see your shop. We’ll stop by later, Charles,” she assured him.
* * *
Charles retreated to his shop where the act of creation gave a measure of satisfaction to his life and buffered his wife’s coldness.
He’d adjusted as best he could to their lack of intimacy. Deep down he believed Karen still needed him. Maybe by kindness he could, in some way, make her happy. She remained an enigma to him.
She worked so hard as a counselor and helped so many people, but her own emotional life seemed empty. He’d devoted his retirement to getting through the wall between them. To no avail, but there was always tomorrow.
FIFTY-FOUR
“Enough of this.” Jordan pulled in a slow, silent breath and used his arms to push himself back from the game table. “I can’t concentrate with you sitting across from me.”
Cardinals fluttered outside the window, eating greedily from a feeder as Whitney beat Jordan at chess in eight moves. He threw the chess pieces back in the box. Obviously he didn’t like losing.
“This is no fun. Let’s go for a sail so I can show off at something I’m good at.”
“Isn’t it too cold?” Whitney looked do
wn at her jeans and sweatshirt. “I didn’t bring warm clothes.”
His brow shot north. “Don’t you know I think of everything? I have great gear you can wear. No objections allowed.”
She laughed. “Let’s do it.”
After rummaging in the hall closet, he returned with parkas, knit hats, gloves and scarves.
Jordan’s lips brushed across hers as he looped a scarf around her neck.
“Whoa!” Whitney gently pushed him back and drew on the wool sweater and insulated jacket he handed her.
“You’ll find a head warmer and gloves in the pockets.”
She pulled on the knits and twirled around. “Nanook of the North is ready.”
“Weather, weather, we’re dressed for whatever. I’ll race you to the lake,” Jordan yelled, taking off.
“No fair, I need a head start. Plus, I can hardly move in this.”
He beat her easily.
“I catered to your macho man ego and let you win after the chess massacre,” she teased, running up behind.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Need help rigging?”
“Thanks. I’m good.”
“And modest too.” She sniffed and lifted her nose.
Jordan’s hands skillfully prepared the sail of his 16’ sailboat.
“You’ve done this before, pro.”
Jordan paused and stared into Whitney’s eyes. “I always master anything truly important to me.”
Her skin tingled with warmth, and she hated that it did.
“Give me your hand.” He helped Whitney aboard, pushed the boat away from shore, and hopped on.
The cold bit into her cheeks, but she didn’t mind. The raw March wind made her feel fully alive. This last year she’d too often been like a robot walking.
Jordan pointed at the residences circling the shore. “These houses always remind me of lonely outposts longing for their owners to come back and bring life to them again.”
“I like the analogy.” Whitney couldn’t help wonder if he was talking about himself and his biological parents. It was not a question she could ask. She shook off the thought and leaned back to savor the rapid glide across the waves. She shouted over the wind. “This is delightful.”
“I knew you’d like it.”
They sailed about forty-five minutes until Whitney’s hands were icicles despite the gloves. Reluctantly they went in.
Back on shore, Jordan took the sail down with a minimum of help from Whitney. “Follow me. I’ve something else to show you.”
She scurried after his retreating figure to the white clapboard building sitting at the shore, a smaller version of the main residence.
He opened the door of the boathouse. A blast of delicious heat surged through her cold body. The electric heater must have been turned on some time ago. Wrought iron chairs and a two-seat wooden glider beckoned invitingly.
Jordan grinned. “I came over earlier to turn this on and bring a party.” He walked over to a cardboard box on a side table and pulled out a bottle of wine, two glasses, packets of cheese, and a box of Triscuit crackers.
“You’re quite the planner.”
“Not always. I don’t usually think too far ahead.” He sounded suddenly serious. Jordan turned, rubbed a hand across his eyes, and quickly changed the subject. “How many points do I get?”
“Ten.” Whitney pretended to reconsider. “Maybe twenty.”
“Oops, don’t look. Good thing I don’t need a corkscrew to open this bottle, because I forgot one.” He confessed this while unscrewing the cap. He filled two plastic wine glasses two-thirds full.
Whitney released her hair from the ski cap. It swirled about her face as she tossed her head. “You’re not perfect, then?”
“Only you are.” Jordan smiled, handed her a glass, and reached over to tilt her face up for a kiss.
She responded lightly to his lips then twisted away. “That’s a line if I ever heard one.”
He led her to the glider and sat beside her. “I may as well make it clear that I can’t help these feelings I have for you, Whitney.” His eyes asked the question before he spoke the words, “And you?”
Whitney focused on a crack in the wood flooring before answering. She wasn’t ready for this, but how best to tell him—so much for moving slow. “Jordan, there’s too much unsettled in my life now for me to be having this conversation.”
“But would I have a chance?” Jordan sounded uncharacteristically humble.
Whitney stalled, sipping her wine. She didn’t want to reject him before she’d gotten to know him, but she wasn’t ready to discuss a possible future with him or anyone. She chose her next words with exquisite care. “Jordan, I like your company very much, that’s all I know.”
“I’ll take it.” He grinned. Was he playing with her emotions after all?
They switched back to small talk and finished their wine. She helped pack up while he turned off the heat and moved the chairs back to their places against the wall.
Outside, Whitney yelled, “Race time again,” and took off.
“No fair, I’m carrying this stuff.” His voice trailed after her, as he whipped into action and managed to outrun her anyway.
They met on the porch, breathless. He put his free arm around her as they entered.
“Time for your next scheduled tourist event, dinner in sleepy little Winterville. There’s no better restaurant than Capistra’s in March. It’s almost impossible to get in during the summer months. You’ll love it.”
Whitney frowned. “I didn’t bring anything fancy to wear.”
“This is resort country, anything goes dress wise. Is a half hour enough time to get ready?”
“Perfect. I don’t linger long over dressing. Too much I’d rather do.”
“Me too.” He grinned. “But I’m not saying what.”
Whitney’s heart flipped into overdrive.
Jordan gently propelled her toward the stairs.
She changed into her matching green knit sweater and pants, freshened her makeup, and rejoined Jordan in the sunroom.
He clicked his tongue. “Did I ever tell you you’re gorgeous in green?”
“Not that I recall...yellow yes, blue definitely, maybe red...”
A ghost of a smile graced his lips. He leaned over to capture hers. She turned away at the last second, indecisive. These romantic overtures weren’t what she’d expected.
His jaw hardened. An awkward silence descended.
She gave a breathless laugh.
* * *
Capistra’s was a three-story Victorian restaurant with an intimate, homey atmosphere. Lantern lights illuminated a view of the pond in back.
A gracious hostess slithered over on suede mules beneath a floor length rayon black and red flowered dress. She led them to a linen-covered table beside a stained glass window.
“Will this do?” She handed them menus.
“Perfect,” they said in unison.
“We have three specials for this evening: duck a l’orange cointreau; sautéed beef tips in mushroom gravy; and our fish of the day, grouper crusted with crushed almonds. “Your waitress will be right with you.”
Whitney leaned forward. “Everything sounds great. How will I ever decide?”
“Take your time,” he said. The waitress appeared and Jordan gave their drink order. “A bottle of Merlot and two glasses.”
“How’s the grouper?” Whitney asked.
“One of our most popular dishes, my personal favorite.”
“Sounds good to me,” Whitney said.
“Make that two.” Jordan handed the menu back.
The glow of candlelight made him look younger and sweet.
Whitney’s heart pounded out a familiar rhythm of anxiety when emotional attachment began. She forced herself to act nonchalant, quizzing Jordan about his childhood memories of summers at the lake. Comfortable, pleasant spurts of silence interspersed their conversation.
Whitney gently chided herself for thinking p
ast this moment as she sipped from her wine glass. During dinner Jordan had three or four glasses to her one. She lost count, but it didn’t seem to affect him. Whitney became vaguely uneasy. She hoped liquor wasn’t too big a presence in his life.
Waiting for dessert—tiramisu—Jordan told a childhood story about pulling out his aunt’s freshly planted annuals while weeding her garden the first year he lived with her and his Uncle Charles.
“I was angry. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be in my own home with my mom and dad. I thought my aunt would be furious, but she never said a word.” Jaw tight, he became still for a full minute.
“How old were you?”
“All of twelve.” He forced a laugh. “But I’m not naughty like that anymore.” He leaned across the table and brushed his hand over hers. He leaned forward again. His lips were inches from hers.
Why did she move toward him this time? He seemed to read her eyes and began a lingering, tender kiss.
“Let’s head back,” Jordan whispered. He paid quickly. Her legs were unsteady from sitting so long— not the wine, she hoped.
Back at the Trindle estate, Jordan guided her along the water’s edge. “I want to show you the beauty of the lake at night when it’s illuminated by the moon.” They strolled along the water’s edge.
“It’s gorgeous.” Whitney pulled her wrap tighter.
Jordan pointed. “See the starlight prancing on the lake.”
The stillness emitted almost a sacred silence. “It’s awesome. God created such an incredible world.”
“I hope to own this property someday. How would you like to live here?”
Whitney didn’t know what to answer. She wanted to pretend his question wasn’t personal but sensed it was. “Weekends would be fantastic, but I’m a city girl at heart. This would be too isolated a setting for me to live full-time—probably why your aunt keeps an apartment in town.”
“That’s what I’d want—the best of both worlds.” He bent down and kissed her neck then her cheeks, and finally placed his lips softly on hers.
