More Than Words Can Say (23 page)

“What is it?” she asked.

“May I paint your portrait while we’re both here for the summer?” he asked. “I’d love to do it. Making that brief sketch of you just now gave me the idea.”

At first, Brooke didn’t know what to say. What she had just experienced had been so unsettling that she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to go through anything like that again. Although torn about her decision, at last she relented.

“Well, yes . . . I suppose so,” she answered tentatively. “Provided, of course, that you don’t mind.”

Greg smiled at her. “Mind?” he asked. “Are you serious? It would be my pleasure! I rarely have such beautiful subjects. And thank you, Brooke. I look forward to starting.”

“Well, good night then,” Brooke said, her heart nearly breaking at the thought of his leaving.

“And good night to you, too,” he answered. While cradling his things in both arms, he limped endearingly out onto the porch and was soon treading his way homeward.

Only moments after Greg’s departure, Brooke’s conflicting emotions collided yet again with an even greater intensity, and her eyes exploded into tears. She already missed his presence beyond all reason, and she badly wanted him to return.

My God,
she thought.
What will become of me now? And of Greg? And, dare I say it, of
us . . .
?

Later, just before she went to bed, she wistfully looked at the framed photograph of Bill that she always kept on her nightstand, no matter where she traveled. It had been with her every day since Bill left, and she had lovingly brought it with her from Syracuse. Normally that picture granted her comfort. But while looking at it now, the only emotion she experienced was overpowering guilt. Before slipping between the sheets she placed the photo facedown atop the table, so that his newly condemning eyes could not look upon her as she slept. Somehow, in the space of less than an hour, her world had changed so vastly, so unexpectedly, that she could no longer bear her husband’s gaze.

As she tried crying herself to sleep, she shed what she believed were unrequited tears. But what she didn’t know—what she couldn’t have known—was that Gregory Butler had experienced the same set of overwhelming emotions this night, as well. And that he, too, was finding sleep impossible to capture.

M
OMENTARILY STOPPING IN
her reading, Chelsea wiped her teary eyes.

“It is a terrible thing, being this way,”
she then read aloud to Brandon.
“I feel so guilty and torn, my heart suddenly a jumble of desire, guilt, joy, and sadness. What am I to do now? My conscience says that I should return to Syracuse as soon as possible and forget all about this man named Gregory Butler. But my heart is demanding that I stay and discover where all of these newfound feelings may take me. All I know for certain is that I must somehow decide. And although the outcome may have disastrous implications for everything I know and love, and I am quite unsure of where life is now leading me, I feel compelled to follow . . .”

With a sigh, Chelsea closed the old journal and placed it on the coffee table.
The same table where Brooke and Greg shared their champagne, so many years ago,
she thought.
And the exact spot where she first realized her great desire for him. How did their story end, I wonder? And perhaps even more important, am I still sure that I want to know?

Brandon reached out and comfortingly touched her on one shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t suppose that I’ll be able to answer that question until we’ve learned everything that Brooke’s journal has to offer,” she answered. “Brooke wanted me to read it, but given what we’ve learned so far, I’m still at a loss to understand why.”

“I know that it seems we’ve discovered the beginnings of an emotional affair,” Brandon said. “But we still don’t know whether Brooke and Greg ever acted on it.”

“I know . . . ,” Chelsea answered. When she next looked at him, she realized that it had been many hours since they had last eaten. “You must be ravenous,” she said. “But it’s a bit late to cook a full meal. I could rustle us up a couple of sandwiches, if you want.”

Brandon nodded. “That’d be good,” he answered. “I could use something in my stomach besides alcohol.”

At last, Chelsea smiled. “Consider it done,” she said. “Is tuna salad okay?”

“Anything . . . ,” he answered.

On impulse, she reached out and gently brushed the hair from his forehead. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

B
EARING TWO PLATES,
Chelsea soon returned to the living room. When she reached the sofa, she smiled. Brandon lay fully stretched out, fast asleep and snoring lightly next to the dogs.

After returning the sandwiches to the kitchen, Chelsea tiptoed into her bedroom, found a woolen blanket, and used it to cover Brandon. Then she stood back and again regarded him, thinking. As he lay there in the firelight she took in his dark, wavy hair, his strong face, and his muscular body.

And then, suddenly, something stirred within her. It was a feeling of which, until this very moment, she had been less aware. But now, as she stood looking down at him in the quiet of the night, she at last felt it fully and it swelled her heart nearly to breaking. Totally overcome by it, for several moments she just stood there, watching him sleep.

And there it is,
she thought joyously.
Like my dear grandmother, I too am falling in love with the man in the neighboring cottage. And also like Brooke, I’ve come to realize something else. I want him more than any man I’ve ever known. Before this moment, I thought I had loved others. But now, as I look down upon Brandon, I realize that I was wrong and that all the others in my life were mere dalliances. This is romantic love as it was meant to be—palpable, alive, overpowering in its intensity. But will Brandon ever be able to fully return my sentiments? Can he in fact ever overcome the loss of his fiancée and find the freedom to love again? Only time will tell, I suppose. And to find out, I must be willing to wait . . .

T
WO HOURS LATER,
Chelsea still found sleep elusive. The moonlight streamed through her bedroom window, coating everything in a slivery sheen, while the passing clouds created ephemeral shadows that glided, ghostlike, across the room. Perhaps her sleeplessness was from knowing that Brandon still dozed before the fireplace. But far more likely, she knew, it was her sudden realization that she had fallen fully and irretrievably in love with him that kept her awake. Just then she heard footsteps. Although they arrived lightly, she knew that they were his.

Turning in bed, she rose up on one elbow and looked toward the double doors that led into the living room. Then she saw him pause near one of the door frames, as if unsure. He looked like some wonderfully carved Greco-Roman relief as the last of the fireplace embers dimly glowed behind his tall silhouette.

“You’re awake?” he asked quietly.

Chelsea nodded. “I couldn’t sleep,” she answered.

“Nor could I,” Brandon said. Then silence reigned once more while he carefully considered his next words.

“May I join you?” he asked respectfully.

Suddenly, the tug on Chelsea’s heart was far stronger than any before it.
I want him so badly,
she thought.
But is now the time? What would it say about me, about him . . . about . . . us?

Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward a little. “I’d like that, Brandon,” she said at last. “I really would. And I’d be lying to you if I said that I haven’t thought about it. I’m just not sure that I’m ready for—”

Before she could finish her sentence, he was moving toward her. He approached quietly, then bent down and looked at her. At last she could clearly see his features, as they too were now highlighted by the full moon. She felt her heart beat even faster.

“You didn’t hear me out, city girl,” he said. “I just want to hold you.”

With shaking hands, Chelsea turned over and pulled down the sheet and comforter on the other side of the bed. Still clothed, Brandon got into bed beside her. As he spooned her from behind, his body took on the shape of hers and she could feel his breath, warm and steady, against the nape of her neck. He felt so right lying there against her, far more so than any man before him.

“Thank . . . you,” she heard him whisper as he neared the cusp of sleep.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered back.

Before closing her eyes, Chelsea took his free hand and held it against her beating heart.

Chapter 21

W
hen Brandon awoke, the first thing he saw was Chelsea, sitting on the side of the bed. She was already showered and dressed. In her hands she held a mug of steaming black coffee.

“Hey there,” she said quietly.

As Brandon rose up on one elbow, his head started to swim. After taking a deep breath, he ran his fingers back through his hair and then gratefully accepted the mug from Chelsea. The mind-clearing coffee was hot and good. At last he managed a smile. But some of the effects of the bourbon were still with him, and it showed.

“Bless you,” he said after again sipping his coffee.

Chelsea smiled. “You’re welcome,” she answered.

Brandon looked at her apologetically. “So, uh . . . did I do anything inappropriate last night?” he asked. “I mean, I woke up in your bed but I’m still dressed. So unless you redressed me afterward, nothing happened, right?”

“Right.”

“Thank God,” he said.

Chelsea raised her eyebrows. “You’re actually
glad
that nothing happened?” she asked.

“Sure,” he answered.

“I don’t get it.”

Before replying, Brandon set the coffee mug atop the nightstand and gingerly clambered out of bed. “It’s simple,” he answered with a mischievous smile. “If something more
had
indeed happened, it’d be a crying shame if I couldn’t remember it.”

This time, Chelsea laughed fully. “I suppose that’s true,” she answered.

As Brandon stood there before her, with his hair mussed and a telltale five o’clock shadow on his face, Chelsea again felt overcome by his presence. They had slept side by side all night, his body curled up against hers, his breath warm and rhythmic against her neck. When at last she had awakened, it had been all she could do to leave his side and go make coffee.

It’s still true,
she thought.
The night wasn’t playing tricks on me after all. Even in the cold light of day, I love this man. I can’t deny it now, can’t take my heart back to how it was before. . .

Brandon turned and looked at the nightstand alarm clock. “Wow . . . ,” he said. “It’s already nine thirty.”

“What time do you have to be at the hospital?” Chelsea asked urgently. “Sorry, but you were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” he answered. “According to the rotation schedule, I’m off today.” Then he smiled wryly and rubbed his forehead. “Good thing, too,” he added. “So unless somebody requests a house call, the day is mine.”

He then stepped closer and looked into Chelsea’s eyes, sparking her physical need for him again. She could literally feel his male presence tempting her once more, which made part of her regret that nothing sexual had happened last night.

“So tell me,” he said. “Shall we spend the day together?”

While trying to surreptitiously calm her excitement, Chelsea smiled and nodded. “I’d love that,” she finally answered. “Do you suppose that we could go to the Blue Rooster and have lunch
?
I’d love to see it.”

Brandon picked up the coffee mug and took another appreciative swallow. Slowly but surely, he was starting to come alive.

“Absolutely,” he answered. “But first I’ve got to go home and clean up. I’m a mess.”

“You go and get yourself presentable,” Chelsea said. “When you come back, we’ll take off.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he answered.

“T
HANK YOU FOR
this,” Chelsea said to Brandon.

Happy to be with her, Brandon smiled. “Well, it wasn’t like my social schedule was full! And besides, I’m having a good time.”

Chelsea happily looked around as she and Brandon sauntered through downtown Serendipity. The weather was nice, with puffy clouds and a light, cooling breeze. The main street was just like Chelsea had expected, with aged brick buildings, narrow sidewalks, and coin-operated parking meters. Their destinations a mystery, cars and pickup trucks bustled back and forth. Seeing Serendipity for the first time made Chelsea wonder just how much, or how little, perhaps, it had changed since her grandmother last visited back in 1942.

Serendipity had no large chain stores or franchise restaurants, it seemed. Instead, Serendipity’s much humbler businesses seemed to exude a quaint mom-and-pop quality. It was as if no matter who walked in, he or she would immediately be welcomed as both a customer and a friend.

Chelsea and Brandon soon passed by an old-time barbershop with an honest-to-goodness barber’s pole mounted out front, an ancient shoe-repair place that looked as if it were still serving Civil War officers, and an old-fashioned soda shop complete with an awning, a marble counter, and an original soda-mixing machine. Most of the businesses weren’t so vintage, but those that were seemed especially welcoming, and their charming ambience put Chelsea at ease.

“Before we go to lunch,” she asked Brandon, “is there by chance an art supply store in town?”

Brandon nodded. “The hardware store carries some of that stuff,” he answered. “Why?”

“I’d like to paint while I’m up here. I don’t need a lot of things—just the basics, to get me started.”

“So you paint, eh?” he asked. “Guess that makes sense, you being an art teacher.”

“Yeah,” Chelsea answered, “although I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as my grandmother Brooke was. She’s the one who first taught me. Plus, I also took some formal studio training in college.”

Moments later they made way for a young couple coming in the opposite direction. The wife was pushing a brand-new baby carriage. As they passed, their baby boy looked up at Chelsea and gurgled happily.