Lake Effect (3 page)

It took a full ten minutes to cross the island, allowing Shelby plenty of time to second-guess her motives. Now that she was here, the impressive manor house looming before her, she wasn't so sure of herself.

What if he's a vegan or gluten intolerant? What if he has a nut allergy? Oh, that would be bad, very bad.

Not giving herself time to think about it again, she marched up to the front door and rang the bell. The basket was so big she couldn't see around it or over it. She didn't hear any sounds coming from the inside and had just turned her back when the front door flew open. Looking over her shoulder she almost dropped the basket. In the doorframe stood the most handsome man she'd ever seen: wet and towel tousled hair, ripped jeans, and no shirt.
Oh holy mother of God!

• • •

Wyeth was still aggravated. He'd spent a most uncomfortable night on the sofa in his study. At six
A.M.
he'd finally given in and pushed himself through a grueling workout. He'd had an even worse time showering in the small, cramped bathroom on the main floor. He was royally pissed at Abby for coming in without calling. She'd acted surprised that there was no lodging available, but he wasn't buying that at all. He knew her all too well. She'd done her homework. This was exactly what he was trying to get away from
.

Get away?
Was that what he was doing? He hadn't really thought of it that way before. The doorbell startled him. Who on earth would be at his door at nine in the morning? Not bothering to put on a shirt or even comb his hair, he went to the front door expecting a courier. What he got instead was a view of Shelby Aylesworth's backside. He had to admit, the woman looked as good from behind as she did from the front — but what on earth did she have in her hands?

“Ah, my mystery redhead, can I help you with that?” He leaned against the doorjamb, enjoying the startled look on her face as she looked back at him over her shoulder and then slowly turned around.

“Hi,” she answered shyly and handed him the biggest basket of baked goods he'd ever seen. “Sorry, I guess I didn't get around to introducing myself yesterday. I'm Shelby — you know, the one that fell in your pool?”

He watched as that beautiful blush began creeping up her neck. “Yes, I seem to remember that.” He laughed, which brought a smile to her face that went straight to his heart.

“I felt really bad about the suit and what Norman did and, well, ah, we just got started off on the wrong foot and this is my way of saying sorry, and I hope it's enough.” She'd said it all in one breath as if she were repeating lines she'd rehearsed.

“Well, Shelby, won't you come in?” He stepped back into the foyer and waited for her to follow.

She didn't.

“Well, at least let me set this down somewhere,” he said. He sat the enormous basket down on the table by the door and was just about to invite her in for a second time when a voice trilled down the stairs.

“Wyeth, honey, would you be a dear and help me out up here?”

“Oh, sorry,” Shelby said, her face reddening even more. “I didn't realize … well, there's plenty of bakery.” She laughed nervously and pointed to the basket, then bolted out the door.

Fuck!

Wyeth watched her drive away, feeling a combination of anger and disappointment course through him.

Abby floated down the steps and looked at the basket on the table. “Wow, who sent you that, Martha Stewart? There's enough fat and calories packed in there to sink a ship! You're not going to eat that, are you?”

“Why are you here?” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he looked back up at her. “Let's cut through all the bullshit Abby, and get right to it. Why are you here?”

“Wyeth.” She cooed his name as she walked the rest of the way down the steps. “It doesn't have to be this way with us, does it? We had a fight — all lovers do. I've missed you. I thought you'd be excited to see me.”

He couldn't believe she was actually pouting. Wyeth had a sudden and unexpected moment of clarity. This was exactly what he didn't want in a woman. “Huh.” He voiced his surprise at the thought aloud, shaking his head. Picking up his cell phone, he made a few short instructions, then turned back to Abby.

“Your flight leaves in an hour. I'm sorry you wasted your time.”

He watched impassively as the anger crossed her face. Not hurt or sorrow — anger at not getting her way. He'd seen it before. She'd be hell to live with for a few days. The beauty of it was, he didn't have to live with it. That thought lightened his mood considerably.

“I certainly appreciate your hospitality, Wyeth.”

He had to give her credit for style. She wasn't about to show him just how angry she really was. He watched her head back up to get her bags and had his second epiphany of the morning: he wanted an honest relationship. An honest relationship would be worth the hard work and effort needed to maintain it. An honest relationship would mean trusting your partner, knowing without a doubt that what she told you was the truth, that what you felt for her was true and meaningful. An honest relationship could absolutely not be had with a woman like Abby Newkirk.

• • •

“Oh, Norman.” Back at the cottage, Shelby hugged the big collie close to her chest. “What an ass I just made of myself, yet again. Of course he would have a woman there. What made me think he wouldn't? Someone who looks like that probably dates a super model — and what do I do? I show up with a ridiculously large basket full of baked goods! Well, I'm mortified, that's all there is to that.”

She sat down on her living room sofa and let her disappointment and grief wash over her. “I'll tell you one thing,” she addressed the dog who still sat patiently looking at her as if he understood every word coming from her mouth. “This won't do. I will not feel sorry for myself, no sir.”

With that she got up off the sofa and started to clean her already clean house. She set upon the book shelves with a vengeance, turned her iPod on, and made her way through the house trying to forget the empty feeling way down in her gut.

She finally allowed herself to collapse in a chair, hours later.

“Jack, you bastard. Why'd you have to die?”

Shelby always thought just having had Jack, even though it was only for a short time, would be enough. No man could ever compare to him. His boyish charm had drawn her to him in high school. She smiled as an image of him in science class flashed through her memory. They'd started dating their junior year in Henderson and never looked back.

There had been some heartache and the usual ups and downs, growing pains as the two of them grew up, yet overall their time together had been joyous. Their trials — and there had been some big ones for two people so young — seemed to pull them together rather than push them apart. And then, he was gone.

She hadn't allowed herself a date for three years after his death, choosing instead to hide her emotions and feelings deep inside, withdrawing from work and life. It had been a dark and lonely place. After that, when she finally did come out of her grief to the real world, every man she met was found sorely lacking when put up against the memory of Jack Aylesworth.

Part of the reason why she'd finally put their house in Bennett's Corners up for sale was to put a few more miles between her and his memory, hoping against hope that she'd be able to start her life anew, and meet a good man. Could a person have that kind of lightning strike twice? Only one man seemed to be in the running to prove that theory, and right now he was in his beautiful manor house with a woman whose voice dripped like honey from the comb, probably feeding each other her bakery.

• • •

Wyeth sat behind the wheel of his black BMW wondering if what he was about to do was a good idea or a bad idea. After sending Abby on her way back to New York, he'd gone to the vineyard office and immersed himself in permits, fees, license agreements, and anything else that would keep his mind occupied.

But no matter how hard he worked, no matter how hard he tried to think of other things, the image of a short, red haired, beautiful woman kept popping into his mind. It didn't help that he'd brought some of the bakery into work with him. The brownies were the most spectacular thing he'd ever eaten. It seemed like everyone at the office knew where the bakery had come from and had a story of their own of Shelby's quiet acts of kindness. That didn't help him either.

That's how he found himself parked in front of her storybook cottage, a handful of wild flowers from the manor yard hastily picked and bundled together on the front seat of his car.

Never return an empty plate.
Wyeth had Olivia Packard to thank for these words of wisdom. His very Southern mother had ideas about manners, things she had instilled into both her children from an early age. Flowers weren't bakery but Wyeth figured they were the next best thing, and so the decision was made. If nothing else it was an excuse to see her again.

The dog barked before he was halfway up the walk — two barks then quiet. The front door opened before he could even knock.

“Mr. Packard. This is a surprise.”

He wasn't quite sure if the look on her face was surprise, anger or confusion. She was dressed in a t-shirt that was too big, and baggy shorts made of purple plaid flannel. Her hair was pulled up loosely atop her head; tendrils escaping the clip that was keeping it perched there. Dark tortoise shell glasses framed her beautiful green eyes. She looked sexy as hell.

“Hi,” he greeted her, then held out the flowers and the empty basket. He loved the way her face lit up when he handed them over to her. “I just wanted to say thanks for the bakery; it was really wonderful and very kind. You didn't have to do that, I'm okay about the suit.”

She looked around him at the car as if she expected someone else.
Of course
—
Abby!

“Thank you so much for the flowers, they're lovely. Won't you come in?”

Wyeth stepped in the hallway, Norman at his side wagging his tail, herding him along. He entered her kitchen and watched as she took her time filling a vase with water and arranging his bouquet.

“Can I offer you a drink?” She held up a large glass pitcher with what he assumed was tea. He nodded his head and waited to speak until she'd placed it in front of him.

“I feel like I owe you a bit of an apology, Shelby. We really got off on the wrong foot from day one.”

He watched as that beautiful blush crept up to her cheeks again. He resisted the urge to let his thumb brush up against it.

“The truth is, I'm grateful to Norman for pushing me in that pool, otherwise we may not have met at all and I feel that would've been a true loss. After all, this is a small island and we're bound to run into each other.”

She looked at him over the top of her glasses, the irony of his statement not lost on her.

“I'd really like it if you'd let us just start over.”

“I'll never turn down the chance to make a new friend — although, what will your other friend think?” she said as she tucked one of her wayward strands of hair back up.

He looked down at her and saw something flash through her eyes, so alive now with light.

“That, I promise you, was not what it looked like or sounded like. Abby and I used to date, but we broke up before I moved up here. Her arrival was a surprise to me. Her departure this morning was a surprise to her. I have a sore back and a stiff neck from spending the night on the sofa in my study if that makes you feel any better.”

He knew it was more than he needed to tell her but he was suddenly glad he'd shared, especially the last part about having slept in his study alone.

She rewarded him with a smile and an intake of breath. “Alrighty then. Are you hungry?”

“After consuming the better part of that bakery — they loved it at the winery by the way — I shouldn't be, but yes, I'm starving.”

“Have a seat. I was just getting ready to make some dinner.”

He watched as she moved through the kitchen with grace and ease, pulling things from the refrigerator, pausing to think, and then moving again.

“You like to cook, I take it?”

“I love to cook.” It was a simple statement but he could feel the passion in her voice. “Don't you cook?”

“I have many talents, Ms. Aylesworth, but cooking is not one of them. I do make a mean marinara sauce though, my mother's recipe. I used to make it once a week in college; everyone loved it. But I haven't made it for a long time.”

She smiled at this and, pushing her glasses back up her nose, she continued with the meal.

“What else do you like to do?” he asked, enjoying the ease with which she prepared the food. He watched as she expertly split the cooked chicken breast she'd taken out of her refrigerator in half. Turning to the cupboard she brought out a jar of what appeared to be jam.

“Well, I like to read. I like to run. I love tennis, do you play?”

“Yes. I love to play; we'll have to do that. I understand the island has some very lovely clay courts. What are you making us for lunch? Your ingredients so far have me intrigued.”

Shelby laughed and the sound was beautiful to him, melodic. “Trust me on this one, Wyeth. By the time I'm done you will see the logic in chicken and jelly. I love your name, it sounds old.”

“It is. It belonged to my father and his father before. I hated it growing up.”

“Isn't that always the way. I hated mine too.”

He watched, fascinated, as she spread the orange jam on the roll she'd just cut, then placed a half of a cooked chicken breast on top of that. She turned on the broiler and crossed back to the refrigerator, taking out a package from the meat drawer and a block of white cheese.

“Now what's that?”