Cottage by the Sea (25 page)

   After a few moments Valerie inquired gently, "What is it about this baby that makes you so melancholy, my dear?"

   But Blythe didn't answer. She continued to stare at the crystal ball on the table in front of her and began to shake her head. The vision of the infant slowly disappeared, and with it her understanding as to the reason tears of despair had coursed down her cheeks.

   "Blythe?" Valerie said softly. "I see you're back. How do you feel?"

   "Sad."

   "Do you remember why?"

   "The baby was lost… it couldn't…" Blythe furrowed her brow, attempting to make sense of the memory.

   "Were you that baby?" Valerie asked.

   "No," she replied firmly, and then wondered why she felt so certain of this.

   "Can you think who the child could be…or could represent?"

   "I haven't a clue," Blythe replied tersely, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. "And now, I-I really must get back," she added, and stood up abruptly. A sense of despondency that was almost palpable had settled in her chest, and she was close to tears again, although she couldn't have explained the reason to anyone.

   "I'm available if you'd like to explore this further," Valerie said gently.

   "No, thanks," Blythe replied.

   "Just ring, or drop by the clinic in Gorran Haven on Tuesdays or Thursdays," Valerie added, ignoring her visitor's curt reply. "I share space with the local GP in rooms above the shipwright's shop at the bottom of Rattle Alley."

   Blythe sensed the psychologist's genuine concern and was sorry she'd been so short with her.

   "Look, Valerie… it's very nice of you to offer, but I think I'll leave matters where they are." She turned toward the opening of the tent to make her escape. "It was a very… interesting… experience—both meeting you and gazing into your crystal ball."

   "Likewise," Dr. Kent replied, pulling her scarlet turban from her head and setting it to one side. "Be well."

By the time Blythe emerged from the gypsy tent, it was nearly four o'clock. Still shaken by what she'd glimpsed in the crystal sphere, she set off toward Richard's birthday party in full swing on the other side of the open field.

   As she tramped through the dewy grass past the donkey rides, she realized that her longing for motherhood had not waned one iota, and that she unconsciously had been blocking her awareness that, very soon now, her former husband and her sister would be holding an infant in their arms—a child by Chris that Blythe had desperately wanted herself. The mere thought of Ellie having a baby that was half her ex-husband's flesh and blood was enough to make her head throb and her pulse pound. Was it any wonder, then, that under hypnosis she conjured the sight of an unborn baby, when she dreamed of babies often in her sleep?

   Blythe heaved a sigh of resignation, vowing yet again to work harder at accepting what was past and moving forward on a path of her choosing. However, the image of that child floating like a cloud in an empty sky haunted her.

   She approached the balloon-and-crepe-paper-festooned enclosure just as Chloe Acton-Scott was sharply clapping her hands and calling for silence.

   "Shall we all sing the 'Happy Birthday' song now?" the sleek blonde asked the table full of children gathered around Mrs. Quiller's celebrated chocolate cake. Blythe looked on from the sidelines, unnoticed, as the moist air filled with the sounds of ten-year-olds bellowing the familiar tune. Richard's godmother promptly handed the cake cutter to Mrs. Quiller and picked up her glass of Guinness. Then she gazed up at Luke for a congratulatory kiss. Blythe's landlord obligingly bent down and brushed Chloe on the lips as the children tucked into their cake and ice cream with relish.

   
A kiss is just a kiss
…
a sigh is just a sigh…

   Blythe gratefully accepted a plateful of cake and a mug of tea from Mrs. Q and sat down on a camp stool.

   "Oh… there you are!" Luke exclaimed, stepping away from Chloe. "We wondered where you'd got to. You missed Richard's big moment."

   "I was here," Blythe corrected him quietly.

   "The cake is marvelous, isn't it?" Luke asked, watching her take her first bite.

   "Delicious," she agreed without looking up.

   Was he thinking, as she was, of their beach picnic, where she'd first sampled Mrs. Q's extraordinary chocolate confection? Had he given much thought to what had happened after that?

   Probably not.

   As far as she could tell, when it came to Luke, a kiss
was
just a kiss, and nothing more. Or as Grandma Barton used to say, "You can warm yer socks in the oven, m'girl, but that don't make 'em biscuits!"

   Chloe drifted over to where Luke and Blythe were engaged in desultory conversation and laid a well-manicured hand on his shoulder.

   "Shouldn't we think about making our escape, darling?"

   Blythe promptly stood up and announced, "If you two'll excuse me, I'm just going to give a hand to Mrs. Q."

   Thankful for the diversion, she began the chore of packing the party paraphernalia into the hampers and coolers for transport back to Barton Hall.

   "Truly, darling, we'd best be off," Chloe persisted, just as Richard declared that his friends wished to play a round of charades before it was time to leave. "Best to do that at the Hall, dear," she said decisively. "I'm sure Mrs. Stowe would be an excellent referee. She's from Hollywood, where they make all the films," she proclaimed brightly for the children's benefit. She turned to Blythe and added, "You wouldn't mind taking over from here, would you? Luke and I were due at the Strattons' for drinks half an hour ago. I had Quiller bring round the Jag."

   Blythe merely nodded. She was amazed the woman had the gall to ask a seventy-year-old man to walk a mile and a half back to Barton Hall in order to drive her car over to the fête.

   "Are you sure you don't mind?" Luke asked Blythe quickly.

   "No problem," she replied coolly. "I like children." Then she turned to the covey of Richard's friends, who gazed up at her expectantly.

   "Who all is brave enough here to get in a car with me while I drive on the left side of the road in your country for the
very
first time in many years?" she demanded.

   "I am!" chorused the boys in unison.

   "But
I
get to sit next to her," Richard announced excitedly, "because it's my birthday, right, Blythe?"

   "Right you are, buckaroo." She grinned. "Last one in the Land Rover's a bowlegged cowpoke!"

   "Are you sure you'll be able to navigate all right driving back to the Hall?" Luke asked with a worried frown as his son's boisterous friends piled into his car, laughing and shouting.

   "Watch me," she challenged, holding out her hand, palm up, to receive his car keys.

   "What about driving on the left? No qualms?" he persisted handing her the keys.

   "What difference will another dent or two make on the green monster?" She shrugged. "We'll all survive. See ya."

   And without a backward glance she climbed into the driver's seat and flawlessly put Luke's car in gear. She'd driven hay balers trickier than this, she thought grimly.

   She watched Luke through her rearview mirror, monitoring their retreat as his scarred vehicle packed with noisy, happy children rolled across the field and headed toward Dodman Point.

   Then, for absolutely no reason she could think of, a motto from her high-school days came to mind: "When a cowboy gives you the keys to his truck, you know you're close to winnin' his heart."

   "Oh, get real!" Blythe muttered to herself as she efficiently released the four-wheel-drive mechanism and took to the paved roadway.
It's just business…

A
s the summer wore on, Blythe kept strictly to her pledge that, when it came to her new business partner, she would conduct herself in a purely professional manner. To her surprise, so did Luke.

   She gauged his cool-down was because he found Chloe's obvious attraction to him flattering and in typical English fashion, opted for the choice that offered him the least emotional investment and the most safety from dealing with his own feelings of loss. In any event Blythe figured after the year she'd been through, she wasn't in the market for a man, period.

   It was just a kiss, for God's sake!

   She was more convinced than ever that her extraordinary response to Luke's ardor had been part of her attempt to compensate for Christopher's wounding behavior. She was persuaded that a great deal of time would have to elapse before she could trust her own judgment when it came to men. Yet, having come to this logical conclusion, Blythe couldn't deny her absurd sense of disappointment every time she recalled Luke's bending down to bestow that kiss on Chloe's lips at Richard's birthday party.

   As for Chloe herself, Richard's godmother arrived without fail every Friday evening, a refugee, as she described it, from her "beastly" job as an executive secretary in a London public-relations firm that specialized in touting pharmaceuticals worldwide. She invariably stayed until after high tea Sunday evening, with the result that Blythe found a way to busy herself in her cottage over these weekends, revising sketches or reviewing work orders.

   When Blythe did happen to encounter Luke's houseguest and he was out of earshot, Chloe made it abundantly clear that she considered Barton Hall Nurseries an endeavor that was—in her words—"rather NQOCD."

   When Blythe requested a translation from Mrs. Quiller, the housekeeper flushed and revealed that it was a Sloane Ranger abbreviation that stood for "Not Quite Our Class, Dear."

   Not long after this exchange, Blythe set out along the cliff walk in an increasingly unsettled state of mind. As she stared out to sea, she made a vow. Whenever she felt the slightest unwelcome spark flash between herself and Luke, she pledged to herself she would summon the memory of Chloe casting cow eyes at her swain during Richard's party, and Luke's kissing her in response. On the lips.

   Blythe and the dark-haired Mr. Teague were business partners and nothing more.

   
If you're fixin' to get yourself a good stallion, don't go lookin' in
the donkey corral.

   
Damn, Grandma!
Blythe thought irritably. She wasn't fixin' to get herself anything but a pile of work on her desk and potting soil under her fingernails!

   Meanwhile the stable's slate roof had been completely renewed at a shocking expense. By the last week in July, Blythe began designing the raised beds where herbs would be planted in season in the walled garden. To her delight she found an able helper in young Richard.

   "Hold that string for me, will you, Dicken?" she called, driving a small stake into the moist earth to mark the boundaries of the large patch of parsley they'd plant when the time was right. "After all, pardner, this section is being installed in your honor."

   The ten-year-old had exhibited remarkable patience, working beside Blythe in the garden for hours at a time. He willingly fetched tools, dug long furrows with his hand trowel, carried small batches of old bricks destined to be used in a variety of low walls they were going to build, and generally made himself useful.

   In contrast, Chloe had apparently taken one look at the latest raft of repair projects and decamped for London, promising that she'd be down to see how they were getting on "some weekend soon."

   Luke, meanwhile, began to master Blythe's computer, teaching himself how to set up spreadsheets so that they might better keep track of their inventories and, eventually, install a payroll system for their future workers.

   Not surprisingly, word had leaked out in Mevagissey and Gorran Haven that Barton Hall Nurseries would soon be offering employment to locals with suitably green thumbs. Every day someone rang up or drove into the gravel entrance, volunteering to help out with large projects as a way of showing interest in coming to work permanently when the enterprise was in full operation.

   One Saturday afternoon toward the end of July, Blythe urged Richard to accept an invitation to attend a beach picnic at Hemmick Cove with the family of one of the boys who'd come to his birthday party.

   "You've done more than your fair share this week, Dicken, ol' bean," Blythe said with a smile, ruffling his hair. "It's a perfect day for the beach, so get moving!"

   "Absolutely, son," Luke agreed. "Blythe and I can't put off any longer going through the last bits and bobs up in the stable loft, and you can't really help us with that."

   Mrs. Quiller chauffeured her charge to the rendezvous point in her Ford Fiesta, announcing that she and her husband would then go on to Mevagissey to visit with friends for the rest of the afternoon.

   "I say, Blythe, are you up to tackling a general tidying up so the electricians can install the new lighting grid next week?" Luke inquired as they watched Mrs. Q's car disappear up the shaded drive. "It might take us until dinnertime."

   "I certainly don't have to rush anywhere tonight, do you?" she replied, and then flushed with embarrassment. She didn't mean to sound as if she were fishing for information about Luke's social life. She didn't give a damn if Chloe might be coming down from London this weekend, but her reply made it sound as if she did.