Chill Waters (26 page)

She saw him about to argue further, think better of it. He must have seen in her eyes that there was no changing her mind, no talking her out of it, because he took the check from her hand and slipped it into his billfold. “All right. Thanks. You’re dressed for your run. You go ahead and I’ll get started on the…”

“I’ve changed my mind, Martin. I’m going to leave the rest for now.”

His face darkened. “But you said you wanted…”

She kept her voice calm. “Martin, you’re not hearing me. “I said that’s it for now. The downstairs was my main concern. I do appreciate all your good work, though, I want you to know that.”

He looked at her, said nothing.

“Anyway, not being tied up here, you’ll be able to finish your book that much quicker.”

Why am I not telling him I want him out of the cabin?

Because you’re hoping he’ll get the message and you won’t have to. Because you hate confrontation. Because you feel sorry for him. And because you’re just a little bit afraid of this man. All of the above.

Please let him be gone when I get home tonight.

Thirty-One

The meeting with Mike Bennings had gone sour for Greg Timmins. Like everything else in his life, unraveling like an old sweater in the first five minutes. The guy just didn’t like him and now his competition had snapped up one of the few accounts Greg still handled himself.

And the hospital account was too damn big to lose.

He wanted his wife back.

Greg set his rum and coke on the dresser, the top already covered with overlapping rings, sticky from other drinks. He picked up his blue and grey silk tie from the unmade bed. Just the thought of all those dirty dishes in the sink downstairs made him nauseous. It felt like the whole stinking mess was coming to life, overwhelming him, crowding him out.

He wouldn’t ask her to come back to this, though. He’d check out a maid service in the morning, he promised himself as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. He ran a comb through his hair, noticed the grey was returning. Rachael hadn’t minded the grey. She always said it made him look distinguished.

To hell with Lisa. She was a nut case anyway.

He’d messed up big-time and he knew it. But Greg Timmins was like a cat, always landed on his feet. No sense in trying to hard-sell Rachael, though. He should have known it wouldn’t work with her. Sincerity was his best bet. Yeah, he’d go with sincerity.

Goddamn Lisa was head of public relations now, up on the eighth floor, while he was swimming in crap. He never saw her now, except for that one time in the elevator. As she pressed her button to her floor, he’d caught the hint of a mocking smile on that sexy mouth and he’d wanted to slap it off. Whatever happened to Halston family values? he wondered self-righteously.

It had been a mistake telling Lisa she should look for another job. Like a concerned father, he’d explained that Halston’s frowned on employees ‘fraternizing’. He’d even offered to write her a glowing letter of recommendation

Well, she’d gotten another job all right, but not exactly what he had in mind.

To add to that humiliation, the new boyfriend, who also happened to be the boss’ nephew, was on Greg’s back like a stinking blanket. He wants me gone. He can’t stand looking at me, knowing I slept with Lisa. I’m a thorn in his side. How long will I be able to take his garbage? It wasn’t fair, dammit. Forty-eight was too old to start over.

I miss Rachael, he thought, picking up his drink and taking a swig. Just one to bolster the old courage. She’d sounded so final on the phone. So strong. Why did her strength seem to weaken him?

But she loved him. He’d always known that Rachael loved him. She would come back. He just had to play his cards right.

Thirty-Two

Rachael stepped back from the mirror to get the full effect of her efforts. The gold chain and earrings went perfect with the dress as she’d known they would. She’d taken time with her make-up, with everything, even to giving herself a pedicure. For the first time ever she’d painted her toenails, choosing an almost clear polish with just a hint of peach to match her fingernails. Though it wasn’t likely anyone would see her feet. Still, they felt lovely inside her new ivory shoes with the narrow strap across the ankle. She’d have to wear boots, though, carry the shoes in a bag. No matter.

“You look m a r v e l l o u s,” she told her reflection in a bad imitation of Billy Crystal, and had to laugh at herself.

Leaving the mirror, she rifled in the dresser drawer for her good black gloves. Susan had bought them for her two Christmases ago. They were expensive, butter-soft, came up high on her wrists. Because she had a tendency to lose one glove, she wore them only for special occasions. Not here. She sifted through the other drawers, but they were not there either.

How could that be? She distinctly remembered putting them in that drawer. She was standing in the middle of the floor puzzling over the mystery of the missing gloves when the doorbell rang, shooing all thought of missing gloves from her mind. Peter.

Settling for her old black wool gloves, she changed into her boots, slipped into her new coat, grabbed up her evening bag. Forcing herself to walk, not run, she went to answer.

On opening the door, her smile of greeting wavered, her stomach dropping into no-man’s land. “Martin. What are…”

“Hi. II’ve been feeling pretty crummy aboutwell, I just wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for what happened.” He shifted his feet on her porch floor. “I was hoping you might let me try to make it up to you. I thought maybe you’d let me take you out for…”

He stopped, his eyes taking her in, realization dawning. Apparently, he’d had his little speech ready and went straight into it before gauging the situation. She felt sorry for him.

“Guess someone else beat me to it,” he smiled ruefully. “Lousy timing on my part. You were just on your way out.”

“Yes.”

His eyes swept over her a second time, more thoroughly. She felt uncomfortable beneath his gaze. Never mind that he nodded his approval. “You look real nice, Rachael. Real nice. He’s a lucky guy.”

“Thank you, Martin. I’m sorry I…”

“Think nothing of it.”

Why did she get the feeling he was remembering the jeans and tee-shirt she’d worn last night, resenting that she’d thought him so unworthy of any effort on her part. Well, tough. If she’d worn something more presentable, it would only have further encouraged him. Someone else would have to make Martin Dunn feel like Mr. Wonderful. It wouldn’t be her. And she was sure that in time, someone would. Martin wasn’t hard to look at, and he wasn’t a bad person.

She was considering telling him right then and there that she thought it best if he vacated the cabin as soon as possible, when Peter drove into the yard. The headlights of the Grand Marquis swept the front of the house like sunshine breaking through a dark cloud.

Why start the night off with unpleasantness with Martin? So he’d tried to kiss her. Big deal. Hardly the end of the world, was it. She’d get over it.

Watching Peter get out of the car and stride up the path toward them, she couldn’t help thinking how incredibly handsome he looked in formal dress. He carried himself with the same ease in black tie as he did in jeans. Neither could she deny the girlish thrill that made her heart sing.

“Your date has arrived. Another time, perhaps,” Martin said.

She didn’t reply. None was necessary. She knew the answer was in her eyes, and that Martin had read it. Because he stopped smiling.

“Aunt Iris mentioned you’d rented out the cabin,” Peter said, searching the stations on the car radio until he found one playing rhythm and blues. “How’s that working out for you?”

“He’s leaving tomorrow,” she said, resolved to make that a reality. One way or the other. She’d brought this upon herself and she would take care of it. As Betty would say, “Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” She should have known better, she berated herself again.

Sensing her reluctance to discuss her tenant, Peter moved on to a new topic, for which she was grateful. She soon found herself relaxing in the plush seat of the Grand Marquis discreetly tracing Peter’s profile with her eyes, thinking again how handsome he was. She wanted to touch his face. He smelled wonderful, too. Slightly woodsy, subtle.

“Iris must be excited about tonight,” she said. “I’m so happy for her.”

He grinned proudly. “Yeah, me too.”

Neither Rachael nor Peter spoke again until they were driving along the main street, heading into St. Clair. Snow fluttered past the windshield. Only a few flurries, the weatherman said.

At a stoplight, Peter turned and gave her a slow admiring gaze she felt all the way down to her pedicured toenails.

“May I say, Ms. Warren, you look absolutely fetching this evening.”

Fetching.
Such an old-fashioned word, it made her smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Gardner. And may I say you look rather dashing yourself.”

***

He took a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t observed, then, producing a jackknife from his pants pocket, he slipped the blade under the sash of her kitchen window. At a sharp nudge upward, the lock gave. The window slid up easily with barely a whisper.

He climbed inside, heard the floorboard creak softly as he stepped one foot onto the kitchen floor.

Thirty-Three

The dinner was held at the
Rankin,
St. Clair’s only hotel. Although Built in the mid 1800’s, it remained as elegant as a grand duchess in her prime.

The tables had been arranged strategically around the large room, to allow room for dancing later. Every attention to detail had been paid. Blue patterned china and crystal graced snow-white tablecloths, glittered beneath a chandelier befitting a production of
Phantom of the Opera.

After a half-hour of mingling, guests were summoned to dinner. There were numerous heart-felt toasts to Iris. The meal, which began with a consommé and green salad, was served up in spectacular fashion.

The main dish was breast of chicken broiled in a special sauce (definitely not tomato soup, Rachael mused) with lemon-parsleyed potatoes. There were side dishes of baby peas, glazed carrots, beets, and baskets of warm crusty rolls, along with an assortment of pickles and relishes set out on each table in cut-glass serving dishes.

A banquet fit for a queen, Rachael thought, glancing affectionately at Iris who looked positively regal in the sapphire taffeta gown and the single strand of pearls Peter had given her to mark the occasion. At the moment, she was deep in conversation with the woman seated to her right whom Rachael knew to be Hedda Neilson, President of the Arts Council.

Rachael was quietly enjoying the last crumb of her strawberry cheesecake, and the witty conversation and laughter that drifted around the table. Earlier, there’d been a few hushed comments and speculations about the body having washed up on the rocks, and Hartley McLeod’s disappearance, but each time Peter deftly steered the topic onto more pleasant paths, clearly determined that nothing was going to spoil the mood of the evening. But Rachael didn’t miss the distress that came into his eyes at the mention of his old friend.

She was happy to follow his lead.

Up on the small dais, a five-piece band, its members looking splendid in maroon jackets and white pants, had launched into a rendition of
Deep Purple.
Above the music, Iris was saying, “You know, Hedda, Rachael is becoming quite a fine sculptor. You should see her latest creation. A work reminiscent of Rodin, if he’d been a woman, and lived in this time. He worked mainly in clay and wax, you know,” she said to the table at large.

The outlandish praise both warmed and embarrassed Rachael. Iris was smiling at her with the pride of a teacher for her favorite student. The flame from the glassed-in candle danced in her blue eyes.

“Yes, I do believe you mentioned it once or twice, Iris,” Hedda Neilson said in a teasing tone. She was a tall, handsome woman in a shimmering burgundy dress. Her smile showed off large, perfect teeth. “Perhaps, Rachael, you’ll let us arrange a showing of some of your pieces, come spring.”

Rachael had to tamp down the rush of excitement at her words. Don’t let it go to your head. An idle comment made at a dinner party. No doubt to please Iris.

“That’s very kind of you, but I’m really just a beginn…”

“Posh,” Iris broke in, waving off her protest. “You’re far too modest, Rachael. She has her grandmother’s genes, you know. You can’t escape your destiny, dear,” she said, reaching over and patting Rachael’s hand. “You have the soul of an artist.”

The soul maybe. Talent was something else. Rodin, indeed. She couldn’t deny, though, the buzz of warmth that flowed through her body. Or maybe it was just the wine.

“I was so delighted, Rachael, when I learned your grandmother was Emily Warren,” said Irene Lord, the gamin-faced woman with silvery hair and little girl voice, seated across from her. Peter had told her earlier that Ms. Lord had been a fixture at the town library practically from the day of its inception. “We have two of Emily’s paintings hanging in the gallery. She was a fine artist,” Miss Lord said. “Underrated, unfortunately. But then so was Van Gogh in his lifetime. The only painting he sold was to his brother.”