A Light For My Love (3 page)

Just then he saw Pug coming toward him, a big
platter in his hands. Jake’s last thought about Williams was that
he’d probably get his name in the newspaper one more time, when the
police fished his gray, water-bloated corpse out of the river.

*~*~*

Please be careful with that," China Sullivan
appealed. “It—it’s been in my family for a long time.” With no
little trepidation, she watched as the two sturdy Jesperson
brothers maneuvered her mother's elegant sideboard down the hall
toward the front door. She knew that the draymen were more
accustomed to loading barrels of flour and lard for Landers Bakery
than moving fine furniture. As they passed her, red-faced and
sweating from their efforts, she stretched out a light hand to
touch the beeswaxed cherry wood one last time.

She followed them as far as the porch,
watching anxiously as they ferried the heavy piece down the steps.
When it listed sharply to the left, China's breath caught on the
lump in her throat.

A muffled but audible curse rose from the
general vicinity of the sideboard. “I told you we should have
brought Lucas to help!” Rogan Jesperson grunted at his brother.

They righted their burden after a brief,
grappling struggle, and continued to the waiting dray. With
considerable effort they hoisted it onto the back of the wagon.
Their two horses, as sturdy as the brothers, stood like granite
sculptures in the traces while the wagon pitched under the weight
of the sideboard.

China waited until Rogan covered it with a
tarp, and then allowed herself a shaky sigh, feeling her eyes begin
to burn. She was being ridiculous, she knew, but telling herself
that didn’t seem to help.

The drayman climbed the stairs again to
China’s porch, his auburn head a bit of color under the slate gray
sky. “Ma'am,” he huffed, “if you'll just sign here—” He held out a
receipt book and pencil while dragging his forearm across his wide
brow.

China hesitated a moment, then took the
pencil into icy fingers. In complying with his request, she signed
away one more piece of the life she’d grown up with.

“You'll try to avoid the bigger ruts in the
street?” China asked hopefully, scratching her name on the
slip.

A look of mild horror crossed Jesperson’s
broad face as he took the book back and poked the pencil behind his
ear. “Mrs. Landers would have our hides if we damaged this
sideboard before she even got it into her house. Don’t you worry,
ma’am, we'll give it a real smooth ride.” He handed her the
receipt.

China only nodded, afraid that hearing her
own increasingly constricted voice would make her break down
altogether. This was just business, she kept reminding herself. She
had no way to pay her long-delinquent bill at Landers Bakery, and
this was the agreement she and Sam Landers had arrived at. In
exchange for the cherry sideboard his wife had admired, the debt
would be forgiven, and she would even have a credit balance. The
fact that Mrs. Landers had first seen the piece as a dinner guest
at her parents’ table was something China would have to disregard.
Those days of comfort and security were gone forever—she’d so taken
for granted that her future held both—and she was in no position to
entertain the luxury of embarrassment. There were mouths to feed in
this house.

Rogan Jesperson returned to his wagon, and
China went back into the house, unwilling and unable to watch them
leave. She should be used to this by now, she supposed. But if she
was forced to sell or trade away too many more of their
furnishings, the family would be sitting on packing crates brought
down from the attic.

As she looked down the hall toward the
kitchen, she saw the bright rectangles of unfaded wallpaper, ghosts
that marked the places where pictures used to hang. And as she saw
those, her mind automatically took a right turn into the back
parlor and relived the afternoon six months ago when she’d sold the
red turkey carpet. She’d half hoped that she’d find money hidden
under it when it was rolled up. But there had been nothing beneath
except bare hardwood floor.

If only Quinn were here, she pondered, as she
did at least once a day. He would have made all the difference. She
wouldn’t have been reduced to these penurious circumstances. Or
suffered the humiliating experience of having shop owners call at
the front door to collect on the bills she’d incurred to support
the household. He would have prevented all of this.

But Quinn wasn’t here. And, as always, when
she thought of why, Jake Chastaine’s rough good looks rose in her
mind's eye to irritate her. Still, she reflected on her way to the
kitchen, she’d made a certain peace with herself about the matter.
After all, Quinn might someday find his way back to Astoria.

Jake Chastaine? She knew she was rid of him
for good.

*~*~*

“You have to say yes. China will be so happy
to see you.”

Like hell she will, Jake thought. He eyed
Gert Farrell dubiously. He’d just stepped out of A. V. Allen’s
store when he’d seen Gert, the woman who’d been more of a mother to
him than his own had. After the excitement of reunion, Gert had
begun pressing him to come back to the house. Pride prevented him
from pointing out that China had banished him from the Sullivan
home long ago.

He lifted his voice slightly to be heard over
a beer wagon that rumbled past, letting his eyes rest unseeing on
the gold-leaf lettering painted on its dark side. “I wouldn't be
too sure about that . . . besides, I've got a lot of
things I need to take care of and I don't want to be a bother.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” she snorted, not
letting him wiggle free of the invitation. “That house got to be so
big and empty, we rented out a couple of rooms. You’re family—you
wouldn’t be any more bother than our other guests.”

Jake brought his gaze back to her, puzzled.
The Sullivan were renting rooms? He supposed that might make things
more businesslike if he stayed there. He discarded the idea,
shaking his head. “No, it wouldn't be—”

Gert drew herself up slightly and fixed him
with a determined look. “You said yourself you hate living in a
hotel. You used to like staying with us. You spent enough time
there when you were a boy.”

Oh, goddamn it, Jake swore to himself. He
felt powerless against her barrage of guilt-provoking arguments. He
did hate hotels. He’d spent last night at the Occident, and even
though it was a nice place, he’d lain awake, listening to every
footfall in the hallway, every key in every lock on the floor.
Still, he knew in his bones that it would be a mistake to give in
to Gert. He wanted to see China, to talk to her, but not under
these circumstances. So he wondered where his next words came
from.

“All right, I'll come, but only if you let me
pay you.”

Gert glanced behind her at the grocer’s door,
then turned back to look at him. Her blue eyes twinkled. “It's a
deal.”

*~*~*

“Aunt Gert, is that you?” China called from
the kitchen. She cocked her head, her scrub brush halted in
mid-stroke as she listened to the sounds of indistinct voices and
muffled footsteps in the entry. The clean, damp smell of the wooden
flooring drifted up to her nose. “Aunt Gert?”

When she got no answer, China threw the brush
in the bucket of soapy water and rose from her knees. She pushed a
wet hand at loose curls that straggled from her hairline. Susan
Price must have wandered away and left the front door open again.
China glanced out the window at the monotonous drizzle falling from
a leaden sky. The cold dampness would seep into the house faster
than the furnace could keep up. She’d have to make a point of
watching Susan more carefully. The poor soul was becoming more
absentminded and vague every day.

China was about to step into the hall when
her great aunt appeared in the doorway, carrying two plucked
chickens.

“Well, there you are,” China said. “I thought
I heard someone. Where are the groceries?”

“A. V. Allen’s is sending their delivery boy
with them. And you'll never guess what,” Aunt Gert said, carefully
making her way to the table on a dry path across the floor.

“What?” China responded warily. “Is Mr. Allen
complaining about our bill?” She felt terrible that she'd been able
to pay so little on their account. Thus far Mr. Allen had been very
kind about letting her charge, though not all of her other
creditors were so patient.

“No, no,” Aunt Gert replied, putting the
chickens on the table. She pulled off her gloves and removed her
hat, revealing snowy hair pulled into a tidy knot. “Maybe that's
because I told him we've rented another room.”

“Not yet we haven't. You probably shouldn't
have said that.” China wished they could avoid taking in another
boarder, but there was no helping it. She couldn’t bring herself to
ask for more rent from old Captain Meredith and Mrs. Price. She
charged them less than they would have paid anywhere else in town,
but their circumstances were even worse than hers.

China began to walk around Aunt Gert, but the
older woman blocked her way, her expression triumphant. “But that’s
my news, dear. I found another paying guest while I was out. He's
in the foyer.”

“Aunt Gert! Without asking me? Without an
interview?” China was aghast. She was accustomed to handling all of
the family business, including the boarders, and she was very
particular. “How could you rent a room to a total stranger you met
on the street? We might be murdered in our beds!” She loved her
mother’s aunt with all her heart, but Aunt Gert could be as trying
as a child.

“That's just it. He’s not a stranger and he
paid me,
three months in advance
. Now how do you like that?”
Gert folded her arms over her chest, her smile smug.

“Who is it?” China asked, her misgivings
continuing to grow.

Aunt Gert only gave her that same pleased
grin. “Go see for yourself.”

“Oh, God,” China moaned as she pushed past
her aunt, rolling down her sleeves. Certain that no good could
possibly come from this, she hurried toward the front door, trying
to tuck up her straying hair, her stride purposeful. She couldn't
imagine who Aunt Gert had dragged home—not one of their
acquaintances needed a room in a boardinghouse. “We'll just have to
return the money.”

“China, wait a minute—”

China rounded the corner and saw a tall,
wide-shouldered figure standing in the entry, his back to her. He
wore a pea coat and faded dungarees. A sea bag was on the floor
next to him, propped against his long leg. Just as she suspected,
this was no one she knew.

“Good afternoon, I'm China Sullivan,” she
said, fumbling with her cuff buttons. “I own this house and I
understand—”

The man turned to face her, and every word
she was about to say left her brain. She could only stare at
him.

“Hello, China.” His voice was rich and
seasoned, like polished mahogany. He considered her for a long
moment, his gaze appreciative, his smile tentative.

No, it couldn’t be him, her stunned mind
insisted. Not after all these years. Every emotion she’d ever felt
crowded together, electrified by a sense of shock.

He was bronzed and blonded by seven years of
punishing storms, equatorial suns, and wind-whipped saltwater. His
sea green eyes were more vivid than ever, and even his brows and
lashes were tipped with golden frost. He was so stunningly
handsome, even if he’d been a stranger, his, face alone would have
made China pause but—

“Jake?” she managed in a bare whisper, her
hand at her throat. “Jake Chastain?” She’d supposed he must be
dead. As much as she’d disliked him, she’d found no pleasure in the
idea, after all. But now here he stood, not ten feet from her, a
full grown man. And a memory of that afternoon in the alcove,
including the kiss, came rushing back as though it were
yesterday.

“Isn't this a happy coincidence?” Aunt Gert
chirped, joining them. “You see? I told you we knew him. I was just
going into A. V. Allen’s when we ran into each other. He had a room
at the Occident, but we can hardly let him stay there, not when he
has us.” She turned to China and gripped her wrist. “Heavens above,
child. You look like you've seen a spirit. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” China breathed unsteadily, trying
to comprehend the reality of the big man standing in her entry
hall. His eyes swept over her, taking in her faded skirt, wet at
the knees, and her plain blouse, unbuttoned at the neck. She knew
she looked like a scullery maid. “I'm fine.”

Studying China, Jake swallowed and tried to
decide if he agreed. The pampered, baby-doll prettiness that had
made her name so fitting was gone. She was a woman now. She was
thinner than he remembered, the hollow in her throat more
noticeable, her jaw a bit sharper, her cheekbones better
defined.

At the same time he couldn't help but
recognize how the curves of her body had ripened, giving her fuller
breasts and rounding her hips. Her skin looked creamy white and
marble smooth in contrast with her black hair, and her blue eyes
glimmered like dark sapphires. Even dressed like a scrub woman, in
that old skirt and blouse, the grace of her upbringing shone
through. And she fixed him with a look that could have crumbled
stone.

“You didn't say what brings you back to town,
Jake,” Gert went on.

He dragged his eyes away from China. “I
decided to come home for a while. I'm doing some business here, and
I had to bring my ship into dry dock.”

“Why, Jake,” Aunt Gert exclaimed, beaming,
“are you a captain now?”

He looked at China again, nodding. “I own the
Katherine Kirkland
. Her home port is San Francisco.” His
gaze lingered on China's face. “She's beautiful.”

China closed her collar, feeling uneasy. His
scent, an evocative combination of salt and fresh air, drifted to
her. It was a scent she remembered very well. Why was he here now,
after all this time? she fretted. Over the years she’d tried so
hard to temper the fury she felt toward him for taking Quinn away
with him. Now it was back with a vengeance.