Haven Creek (13 page)

She’d talked about staying focused, but that wasn’t easy for him. When it came to the family business, he had tunnel vision. However, it was becoming more and more difficult to live in virtual isolation. His interaction was limited to his family: Lucas, Odessa, Bryce, Sharon, Webb—his federal air marshal brother-in-law—Gabrielle, and Gregory. Going to the Happy Hour, talking and dancing with Morgan, was a nagging reminder that he was too young to spend the rest of his life cut off from the world.

Nate felt comfortable enough with Morgan that he could be himself. There wasn’t a need to try to impress her. She was a good listener, something he’d found lacking in some of the women he’d become involved with. She asked questions, and he hadn’t hesitated when answering them.

It was apparent that neither wanted a relationship. He was committed to Shaw & Sons, and she to M. Dane Architecture and Interior Design.

Turning on his side, he closed his eyes. Minutes later he fell into the comforting arms of Morpheus, then slept soundly until Patches jumped on the bed and lay across his chest. He opened one eye, then the other. The cat stared at him for a full minute, her bright blue eyes glowing eerily in her dark face. She meowed softly, and Nate knew the cat wanted him to get up.

He rose on one elbow. “You’re not a dog that needs to be walked, so please do me a favor and go back to your bed and let me catch a few more winks.”

Patches meowed again, and he knew if he didn’t get up, the cat would continue to meow. “Okay, I’m coming.” He got out of bed, reached for the cutoffs he’d left on a chair, and slipped into them.

It hadn’t taken Nate long to see why Patches had come into his bedroom. A large bug with a hard shell lay on the middle of the kitchen floor, its wings fluttering. He pulled a sheet of paper toweling off the roll, picked up the bug, opened the back door, and released it.

Stretching his arms above his head, he inhaled a lungful of moist salt water. He stared up at the watercolor-painted sky. The sun was just coming up. He decided to go back to bed. “I took care of it, Patches,” he said to the cat when she rubbed against his bare leg. The Snowshoe blinked as if she understood what he was saying.

He returned to the bedroom, Patches following. He’d finished the barn, and there was no need for him to get up at dawn. Nate knew he’d been running on adrenaline when he’d worked sixteen-hour days to put up the new home for Shaw & Sons. He fell facedown onto the bed.

“Go away, cat,” he groaned when Patches jumped on the bed and snuggled against his thigh. He usually kept the bedroom door closed to keep her from getting into bed with him. If he wanted to share his bed with someone, he certainly didn’t want it to be a cat. It’d been more than six months since he’d made love to a woman. The statistic was a blatant reminder of his self-imposed celibacy.

Nate groaned again, this time when the flesh between his legs stirred. He’d told himself he didn’t need a woman to ease his sexual frustration; there were alternative methods for obtaining sexual release. But now that alternative didn’t seem so appealing, and he chided himself for asking Morgan for friendship. He could’ve easily asked to date her. After all, she’d mentioned the possibility of taking their relationship to the next level.

Turning over and flopping on his back, he stared at the whirling blades, waiting for his erection to go down. When it did, he was able to go back to sleep, his dreams filled with images of Morgan smiling and staring up at him from beneath lowered lids.

M
organ studied the wallpaper samples she’d uploaded to the desktop in her home office. The previous owners of Angels Landing had decorated all six bedrooms in shades of green: bottle green, fern green, moss green. Wall hangings, seat cushions, bed linens, and rugs all claimed some version of the color. When Kara mentioned the replication of the shade, Morgan decided that the bedrooms with dark furniture would have wallpaper and chair fabrics in a light palette, and that the opposite would be true in rooms with lighter-colored pieces.

She entered notes for the palette for the upholstered armchairs, a daybed, and a round pedestal table she’d identified as Swedish country with classic French provincial influences. The four snow-white pieces were now stored in the attic, along with all the furniture that had occupied the master bedroom’s sitting area.

When Nate referred to his brother as an artistic genius, Morgan felt he was being modest about his own talents. Even though she hadn’t seen his work firsthand, there was no doubt Nate was more than capable of continuing the furniture-making tradition begun generations before him. Her gaze shifted to the pedestal table made by Nate’s grandfather. She could imagine him working with wood in natural or painted-white tones.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the gentle press of his soft lips on hers. It wasn’t just the joining of mouths that had sent shivers of awareness up and down Morgan’s spine; it was also the lingering fragrance of his cologne, which complemented his body’s natural masculine scent. It was all she could do not to throw her arms around Nate’s neck, pull his head down, and drink in his kiss until she was sated.

Morgan continued adding notations along the palette column for the white French-inspired furniture:
White curtains in sheer or lightweight material. Upholstery patterns in toile de Jouy, stripes, and checks.

“No green,” she whispered, chuckling under her breath. The minutes became hours as Morgan selected fabric and wallpaper for each of the six bedrooms. She still had to make selections for the two two-bedroom guesthouses. The longtime groundskeeper and his wife lived in one, and Kara and Jeff had decided to reserve the other for their personal use.

The cell phone on the desk chimed and Morgan glanced over at the display. She punched the button for the speaker feature. “What’s up, Fran?”

“Where are you, Mo?”

“I’m home. Why?”

“I’m on my way.” She glanced at the time on the phone. It was after five. The Beauty Box took its last customer at two o’clock on Saturdays, closing and locking its doors promptly at that time.

The line went dead, and Morgan wondered what it was Francine wanted to see her about. They went bike riding rain or shine, Monday through Friday, catching each other up on what had happened over the past twenty-four hours. Sometimes they rode in complete silence because they had nothing to say. The bike rides offset the need for her to work out at a sports club. The notion of setting up an in-home workout room was scrapped in favor of the solarium, where she spent many hours reading, relaxing, and listening to music.

Morgan was grateful for Francine’s distraction, because she needed to begin preparing for Sunday’s dinner. Walking on bare feet, she made her way down a narrow hallway to the renovated all-white kitchen. The pristine color was broken up by hanging palms and ferns in black-and-white checked glazed ceramic pots drinking in the light and sun in front of a trio of mull
io
ned windows.

The contractor had installed state-of-the-art applian
ce
s: a refrigerator-freezer, dual dishwashers, a built-in microwave, cooktop, and double ovens with warming drawers. She placed five pounds of peeled white potatoes and three eggs in a large pot, covering them with cold water. Whenever it was her turn to host Sunday dinner she alternated between preparing pork, chicken, beef, or fish as the main dish. This time she would make the baby back ribs she’d purchased from one of two Haven Creek pig farmers. One advantage of living in the Creek was the ready availability of farm-raised chickens, eggs, and hogs. Some of the residents had established a cottage agricultural industry: On Tuesday mornings, they brought their products to a farm stand, selling homemade honey and homegrown fruits and vegetables. Jars lining the shelves in Morgan’s pantry were filled with jam, jelly, preserves, pickles, relishes, and seasoning sauces made by women who learned the tradition of canning from their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers.

The doorbell chimed, its bells echoing throughout the house, and Rasputin, who’d been reclining on a mat at the side door, scooted out of the kitchen and into the pantry. Morgan went to answer the door. Francine appeared to be agitated as she paced back and forth.

The redhead stopped pacing. “I went by your shop figuring I would see you, but the door was locked.” Her profusion of auburn curls moved as if they’d taken on a life of their own.

Morgan opened the door wider. “Come on in. Rasputin is hiding,” she said when she noticed Francine glancing around the parlor. Her cat and best friend were like oil and water. Francine didn’t like cats, and Rasputin knew it. She left the solid oak door open, but latched the screen door.

“Your pet is possessed,” Francine mumbled.

“Easy, easy,” Morgan drawled. “You’re talking about my baby.”

Francine’s expression brightened. “Speaking of babies, that’s why I’m here.”

“What’s wrong, Fran?”

Looping her arm through Morgan’s, Francine led her to the yellow floral love seat and pulled her down beside her. “Remember I told you that I hadn’t concentrated on Nate?” Morgan nodded. “Well, I did earlier this morning. And when he came to me in a vision, I was more than a little shocked.”

Morgan stared at her best friend, thinking about their long-lasting friendship. Francine was awarded a full scholarship to Yale as a drama student, graduated, and moved to New York City as a trained stage actress. She fell in love with a fellow struggling actor, and after a six-week courtship they were married at City Hall, with Morgan in attendance as a bridesmaid and witness.

Morgan didn’t have to be psychic to know that Aiden was using her friend. It was the Tanners who sent a check every month to cover the couple’s living expenses so they wouldn’t have to subsist on instant noodles. Francine’s parents had achieved financial success after they’d opened a number of fast-food restaurants, and Mavis Tanner realized her longtime dream of owning and operating a full-service unisex salon when she opened the Beauty Box.

After Aiden secured a recurring role in a prime-time soap opera, he filed for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences. A week after the divorce was finalized, Aiden married one of his co-stars. As Aiden’s star rose, Francine’s fell, and she resorted to making commercials to keep up her acting skills. Her dream to become a stage actress faded, and she returned to Cavanaugh Island, enrolled in cosmetology school, and joined her mother at the Beauty Box.

“What about Nate and babies?” Morgan asked.

Biting on her lip, Francine stared straight ahead. “I saw him holding one.”

“You saw him holding a baby?” she asked, bewildered. “What does that have to do with me, Fran?”

“You were also in my vision. You were standing next to Nate.”

Morgan took in short, shallow breaths, her mind in tumult. Even though she’d told herself over and over that she didn’t believe in ghosts and spirits, her gut said otherwise.

“That means nothing, Fran. You see me, Nate, and a baby in your dream—”

“It wasn’t a dream, Mo,” Francine said, interrupting her. “I wasn’t asleep, and that means it was a vision.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Of course there’s a difference. You dream and I can see the future.”

“I stand corrected,” Morgan said facetiously. “Okay. It was a vision, but what I don’t understand is why you’re going on about me and Nate.”

“Did you not go out with him last night?”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “So you know about that? Or should I say you
heard
about it?”

“The Beauty Box wasn’t open a half hour before folks started gossiping about seeing you and Nate at Happy Hour together. A few of them had the audacity to ask me if you and Nate were a couple, and you know yours truly didn’t part her lips.”

Massaging her temples with her fingertips, Morgan met Francine’s eyes. “That’s because you have my back, and also your mama would fire you on the spot. You know she doesn’t allow gossip in the shop.”

“Word,” she drawled. “After that incident when Selma repeated something she’d heard about Miss Cindy’s husband fooling around with some young girl from Charleston and Miss Cindy came into the shop waving a pistol while screaming, ‘I’m going to kill the lying heifer,’ my mother established the no-gossip policy.”

“Gossip or not, there’s nothing going on between me and Nate except friendship.”

“You know there’re different levels of friendship, Mo.”

“We are
just
friends.”

“Are you going to go out with him again?”

“Yeah,” Morgan said, drawing out the word. “But it’s not what you think. We’ll be busy with work.”

Stretching her legs, Francine stared at the navy blue polish on her toes. “All it takes is one time.”

“One time for what?”

“For you to sleep with Nate and get pregnant.”

Morgan emitted a groan of exasperation. “I told you Nate and I are friends. He doesn’t want a relationship, and neither do I.”

“Maybe not now, but it’s coming, and I promise not to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“Can we please change the subject, Fran?”

“Sure, Mo.”

“Are you doing anything?”

“When?” Francine asked.

“Now.”

She sat up straight. “No. What do you have in mind?”

“I’ll make dinner for you.”

Combing her fingers through her curls, Francine tucked them behind her ears.

“What’s on the menu?”

Morgan stood up. “What do you feel like eating?”

Francine pushed to her feet. A mysterious smile parted her lips when she stared at Morgan.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had steak.”

Morgan smiled. “You’re in luck, because I happen to have a couple of rib-eye steaks in the freezer. Now that it’s getting cooler we can grill and eat outside.”

“You’ll grill and I’ll eat,” Francine said teasingly.

“Let’s go, Red.”

“Hey,” she said to Morgan’s back as she walked out of the parlor. “You never call me Red.”

“I’m going to start calling you that until you learn how to cook.”

“As long as I have friends and relatives willing to feed me there’s no need for me to spend time sweating over a hot stove.”

“What are you going to do when you have kids? Fill them up with fast food?”

Francine followed Morgan into the expansive gourmet kitchen. “Their grandmomma will feed them like my grandmomma feeds me.”

“Well, if you want to eat tonight, then you’re going to have to sing for your supper.”

Climbing up on a stool at the cooking island, Francine watched Morgan as she opened the freezer and took out a plastic bag containing the butcher-paper-wrapped steaks. “What do you want me to sing?”

“A few tunes from
Porgy and Bess, Evita,
and
West Side Story
.”

“Hey, that’s a lot of singing.”

Morgan flashed her charming dimples. “I’m offering three courses: salad, entrée, and dessert. And I’m also willing to offer you a choice of beverages.”

Resting her elbows on the black granite countertop, Francine lifted her eyebrows. “What are my choices?”

“Latte, frappé, cappuccino, wine, margarita, piña colada, espresso, and tea.”

“Well, damn! With choices like those I don’t mind singing for my supper.”

The two women dissolved into a paroxysm of laughter that left tears rolling down their cheeks. Despite whatever was going on in their lives, they could always count on each other for support.

Nate opened the screen door, holding it so it wouldn’t slam against the frame, and entered the house where he’d spent the first eighteen years of his life. Since returning to the Creek he hadn’t been able to think of it as home. It looked and smelled different from what he remembered. It wasn’t that Odessa had changed the house much since she’d become its mistress. However, her subtle touches were apparent. The pale blue walls his mother favored were now white. The beautiful parquet floors his father had laid before he brought Manda home as his bride were now concealed under area rugs, something his mother would’ve never done.

There were additions to the photographs that lined the fireplace mantel in the living room, chronicling the family’s milestones over the years: Lucas and Odessa’s wedding picture, Sharon’s college graduation photo, and Bryce’s high school graduation picture. Framed photos of Sharon’s children rested on a credenza, along with a couple of bonsai trees.

Nate walked past the dining room and its table set for six, wondering who else Odessa had invited to eat with them. Voices raised in laughter came from the kitchen, and he headed in that direction. He was mildly shocked to find his father, Odessa, Bryce, and two young women who were obviously sisters. Both had the same ash-blond hair and large gray eyes. Odessa was busy basting a roasting chicken while Lucas peered into a pot on the stove.

Nate stood in the entrance to the kitchen, staring at Odessa. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Now he knew why his father had been drawn to his second wife. She was Lucas’s type: petite, sophisticated, and outgoing. Although he’d tried, Nate still didn’t think of Odessa as his stepmother. She was his father’s wife and his brother’s mother.

Odessa glanced up, smiling. The skin around her brown eyes crinkled when she smiled. The glow from an overhead light fixture reflected off the gray in her short black hair. “Nate. I’m glad you decided to join us.” Everyone in the kitchen turned to look at him.

“I told Dad I was coming.”

Wiping his hands on a towel, Lucas approached Nate. Placing his arms around his shoulders, he pulled him close. “Thanks for coming,” he whispered in his ear.