Mr. Fix-It (17 page)

“That’ll come in handy for your historical romances.” Khela stood and straightened her white twill miniskirt.

Daphne laughed. “Yes, I’ll have the most authentic rooms in stories about Georgian-era sea captains and thirty-year-old Victorian virgins.”

“I hate it when you downplay your writing skills,” Khela said, leading the way to the dining room. She opened the pine hutch and handed four white porcelain plates to Daphne. “Your stories are—”

“I know, I know,” Daphne said, taking the plates and arranging them on the long pine table, two on each of the longer sides. “I ‘take great care in establishing my settings,’ and I ‘have an unerring grasp of the societal mores’ of my time periods, and of course, I ‘have a sure and clever touch with witty dialogue.’ ”

“Daphne,” Khela said, clutching four settings of silverware.

“You know, I should have those lines from my various rejections printed onto T-shirts. I’d make a fortune, I bet.”

“I was going to say that your stories are too unique, which is probably why they haven’t been contracted. You write literary fiction for a commercial market.”

“So I’m not published because no one wants my work,” Daphne said bleakly. “Great.”

“You’re not published because you haven’t found the right editor on the right day at the right house,” Khela explained. “Of course, you have to send your work out if you want to get published.”

Daphne accepted two knives, two forks and two table spoons, which she then laid beside the two plates on her side of the table. “I send my work out,” she said breezily. “Sometimes.”

“Each no is one step closer to a yes,” Khela sang with a grin.

“You’ve been saying that for the past ten years.”

“Ever since we first heard that line at the romance conference in Chicago. It’s true, too.”

“Not for you. Your first step was a yes. You don’t know what it’s like to get rejected over and over again, Khela,” Daphne said. “You hit it out of the park with your first book. It’s hard to take advice from you.”

“Do you know what a publisher told Stephen King about
Carrie
?”

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me,” Daphne said.

“ ‘We are not interested in science fiction which deals with negative utopias. They do not sell.’ Millions of books sold, two movies and one sequel later, and I’ll bet that publisher wishes he could hop into his Wayback machine and unwrite that rejection.”

Daphne moved aside a bit, allowing Khela to set crystal wine goblets on the table. “I’m going to miss your pep talks,” she said softly.

“You’ll still get them. Only they’ll come by phone and e-mail.”

“It won’t be the same.” Daphne strolled a few feet to the windows. Cupping her elbows in her hands, she stared down at the traffic flowing along Commonwealth Avenue. “I’m going to miss all this. It never occurred to me that I’d ever leave New England, never mind go all the way to Old England.”

“I thought you were going to Wales,” Khela said, hiding her grin as she lit four votive candles snug in crystal holders on the table.

“You know what I mean,” Daphne said. “I always figured that I’d become a real author if I lived in Boston. So many great writers called this little state home and found inspiration here.”

“Yeah,” Khela said. “Ben Affleck and Matt Damon did pretty well for themselves with
Good Will Hunting
.”

“I meant people like Louisa May Alcott,” Daphne said.

“And Denis Leary,” Khela said.

“Ralph Waldo Emerson,” Daphne said.

“Dr. Seuss,” Khela offered.

Daphne faced Khela, her arms crossed over her chest. “Erle Stanley Gardner.”

“Lesley Stahl.”

“She’s a journalist, not an author,” Daphne scoffed. “Now you’re reaching. Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

“We hate him,” they deadpanned together, and then collapsed into laughter.

“Great writers call the world home,” Khela said, joining Daphne at the windows. “Connecticut tries to steal Mark Twain, but he belongs to Hannibal, Missouri. You can write in Wales, but you can always call Boston home.” Khela locked her arms around Daphne and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek. “You’ll always have a home here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Not even if Carter wants to move back to ’Bama?”

“Especially if Carter wants to move back to Alabama.”

Chapter 10

“All the best things about you can’t be seen with the eyes.”

—from
You’re The One For Me
by Khela Halliday

Dinner was exactly what it should have been, a gathering of good friends and new friends. Showing that his appreciation for food was just as keen as that he possessed for furniture, Llewellyn praised Carter’s sauce, comparing it favorably to one he had enjoyed in a small town in Caprese during a summer abroad spent as an apprentice for an Italian antiques trader.

“You do a lot of globetrotting in your line of work,” Carter observed as he refilled his and Llewellyn’s wine goblets with a palate-pleasing merlot he’d unearthed in the back of Khela’s pantry.

“In recent years, yes,” Llewellyn said. “Travel is a perk for a bloke who spent the first twenty years of his life in the midlands of England.”

“How did you get into antique dealing?” Khela asked.

“Purely by accident,” Llewellyn said. “I was reared by my maternal grandmother. She died the year I started university, and she left me a house full of furnishings, paintings and heirlooms that had been in our family since Richard III offered his kingdom for a horse. I kept her diaries—” Khela and Daphne shared an approving glance. “—all of her most treasured heirlooms, and in accordance with her will, I had certain items—a dresser, a vanity table and a bed—appraised for auction. My grandmother was not penny rich but she had quite a lot of good sense. Authorizing the sale of specific pieces of furniture assured that I would have the resources to support myself until I finished school. As difficult as it was to part with her things, I became enamored with the research and expertise involved in antiques. It’s rather like being a detective, really, learning the origin of a piece and how it came to be where you find it. It’s quite thrilling to discover something long thought missing or crafted by a little-known master artisan. While I was in school I took an apprenticeship with a renowned antiquarian and learned the trade from him while I completed my business degree. I started my own business five years ago, and it’s been thriving since.”

“So you kind of just stumbled into your dream job?” Khela said.

“The best surprises are the unexpected ones,” Llewellyn said, taking Daphne’s hand and kissing the back of it. “You never know when something or someone will come into your life, changing it for the better.”

Carter raised his wine glass and made a toast. “Here’s to surprises.”

Glasses kissed with delicate clinks, and Llewellyn addressed Carter. “This building has wonderful features. Daphne tells me that you’re the caretaker?”

“Well, this brownstone is one of the buildings I take care of,” Carter said. “I’ve also got a townhouse across the street.”

“I’m familiar with Baltimore’s rowhouses and New York City’s brownstones, but Boston seems to have no distinction between brownstone, townhouse and rowhouse,” Llewellyn said.

“Essentially, almost all of the residences you’ll find along this section of Comm Ave are townhouses,” Carter explained. “A townhouse can be attached or detached and, although it might not exactly resemble its surrounding houses, it’ll be scaled about the same height. A rowhouse is a string of adjoining townhouses. A brownstone is a townhouse or a rowhouse with a façade in brown sandstone, or pudding stone, which is unique to Boston.”

“So townhouse is an overall term,” Llewellyn summarized, “with rowhouse being a subset of that, and brownstone a further subset of both.”

“You got it, Lew,” Carter said with wink.

“It’s like frogs and toads,” Khela said. “A toad is a frog, but a frog isn’t a toad.”

“Or rectangles and squares,” Daphne added. “A square is a rectangle, but a rectangle isn’t a square.”

“Bloody hell, I think we need more wine!” Llewellyn declared to the approval of his dinner companions.

“I got a special adoration for this brownstone,” Carter said as Llewellyn refilled everyone’s wine goblet. “It’s got a lot of character. I fell in love with it the first time I walked through the front doors.”

“I can see why,” Llewellyn said. “Is the mahogany paneling in the foyer original to the structure?”

“Sure is,” Carter replied. “The copper ribbons on the dormer windows are original, too.”

With that, the two men spent the rest of the meal discussing the unique details of the brownstone the way other men might discuss their favorite sports teams.

“They play well together,” Daphne said, following Khela into the kitchen to make coffee.

“Llewellyn is a good example for Carter,” Khela said, retrieving a small brick of coffee from her freezer. “If he wanted to, Carter could turn his love for this building into a business of his own the way Llewellyn did with antiques. Every brownstone on this street could use someone with his expertise at restoration and repairs.”

“Maybe he’s happy just being a super,” Daphne considered.

“Carter’s not ‘just’ anything. He’s so smart and personable, and he’s so good with people.” Khela pulled a pair of scissors from her utility drawer and snipped open the coffee, which expanded with a fragrant puff once the vacuum seal was broken. “I’m accused of hiding from life by sitting up in my loft writing books, but Carter’s doing the same thing by spending his days keeping up this building.”

“He’s doing what he loves,” Daphne said. “Same as you.”

“I guess,” Khela said dubiously. “It’s just seems weird that a Boston University graduate would want to polish banisters all day.”

“At least he looks good doing it,” Daphne chuckled.

“Amen to that,” Khela laughed.

“Ladies,” Llewellyn said, entering the kitchen with Carter. “I apologize for abandoning you to ready dessert on your own. Mr. Radcliffe and I are at your service.”

“Would you take the cheesecake from the fridge, Carter?” Khela asked.

Without answering, he did so, keeping his silence even as he set the cake in front of her on the counter.

“That’s actually a cheesecake, right?” Daphne asked. “It’s not a tuna casserole or a cleverly disguised shepherd’s pie?”

“It’s classic New York cheesecake,” Khela said, smiling. “Carter can vouch for it. He was with me when I bought it.” She glanced at Carter, who stood slightly apart from the others, leaning against a counter, staring at nothing in particular. “Carter?” Khela prompted.

He responded with a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement.

“Okay…” Khela sighed under her breath, at the moment unwilling to investigate Carter’s sudden detachment.

After coffee, cheesecake and pleasant goodnights, lovey-dovey Daphne and Llewellyn went on their way, leaving Carter and Khela alone with unasked questions looming unspoken between them.

“Your sauce really was amazing,” Khela said as she began clearing the table.

“Lew asked for the recipe.” Carter started collecting wine glasses from the cocktail table in the living room. “At least I think he did. I could hardly understand a word that boy said.”

“He said the same thing about you, yet the two of you got on famously,” Khela chuckled.

“Well, when two fellas find themselves in the same boat, they row together.”

Khela, the empty bread basket and butter dish balanced in one hand, stopped midway to the kitchen. “What does that mean? ‘The same boat?’ ”

“Lew probably spent the day listening to Daphne rant about you same as I spent the day listening to you go on about Daphne.”

Khela’s jaw stiffened. “I’m sorry I spoiled your day.”

Carter rolled his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “Did I say that my day was spoiled? Don’t start hearing things I didn’t say.”

“I heard you loud and clear earlier,” Khela said archly, continuing into the kitchen.

Carter heard the bread basket and butter dish land upon a hard surface—either the granite countertops or the hardwood of the center prep island. Steeling himself for battle, he entered the kitchen.

Khela stood at the sink, using the sprayer to rinse out the pot Carter had used to make his sauce.

“Is there something you want to say to me?” he asked.

“Nope.”

He leaned a hip against the counter farthest from Khela. “That ‘nope’ sure sounds like ‘yep’.”

She whirled around, her right elbow striking the metal water pitcher and sending it clanging to the tile floor. “Why did you say, ‘It’s not right?’ ”

“Why is what not right?”

“Us! Our two weeks!”

The following silence filled Khela with sick fear. Carter just stared at her. And then, very quietly, he said, “You called it a mistake.”

Khela looked at him, chewing the inside of her lower lip until she could work out a reasonable response.

Carter slowly neared her as if afraid she might lash out with one of the heavy or pointed cooking utensils within her reach.

“Why is it not right?” Khela persisted.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” he said.

“I didn’t mean what I said in a negative way, either.”

“So what did you mean?”

“You first.”

Carter bought two seconds of thinking time by clearing his throat. “It’s not right to assign a time limit to something that should develop naturally.”

“I agree,” she all but whispered. “It was a mistake for me to think that two weeks would be enough time with you.”

Carter’s heart soared with the purest of emotions for Khela, but the feeling took on a sour note with her next words.

“Every time I look at you, I just want to touch you, and I want you to touch me,” she said. “You’re so beautiful.”

Deaf to the earnestness in her words, Carter heard only the meaning of them. “You want me,” he said, his voice breaking as he closed the distance between them. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” she sighed heavily, her heart pounding against her ribcage.

“Is that all?”

“No.” She would have backed up if the stainless steel rim of the sink hadn’t been blocking her.

“Well, what else is there?” He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. His strained tone and movements began to concern her. “Is this what you want from me, Khela?” he asked, pressing her right hand to his cheek. “And this?”

She found her left hand pressed to the rock-hard bulge behind the button fly of his jeans.

“You’re the writer, Khela. You don’t have any words for me now?”

Her forehead wrinkled in confusion and her mouth worked to form a response, but she couldn’t make herself say the three words resting on her tongue.

Still grasping her wrists, he spun her, pressing her abdomen to the edge of the sink. He slid a hand under her shirt, running it over her flat belly to raise it, exposing her. Her reflection in the wide window above the sink added to her pleasure, the sight of her breasts in Carter’s hands sending an extra erotic charge through her.

The back of her skirt went up next, and her panties went down. Khela felt a slight tremble in his hands when they went to her hips to guide her against him. She widened her stance, his hot breath and fierce kisses at her ear.

She couldn’t see what he was doing behind her, but she realized that he had lowered his own garments when she felt him, insistent, hard and weighty, at the back of her left thigh. With one hand at her breast and the other at her hip, he used his foot to part her legs further.

His hands and lips seemed to sizzle over her skin, readying her for his passionate invasion. Molding her breasts to the shape of his hands, he filled her.

Reaching over the sink to grab the windowsill, Khela moved against him, swallowing him to the hilt, silently begging him to send her to that place of sheer bliss that she shared only with him.

Carter stared at her reflection in the window. With her features etched in the full glory of her passion, she was simply the loveliest thing he had ever seen. He wrapped his arms around her, plastering himself to her, convulsing within her with a loud groan that made her cry out as she reached the pinnacle of her own pleasure.

Khela shivered afterward, physically spent by the power of the moment. She felt as though she’d been claimed, once and for all. There were no other men in the world, certainly no other man for her. Still slightly panting, she righted her clothing and turned to Carter, to tell him.

He was pulling up his sports briefs and jeans. His cold gaze and the hard set of his jaw silenced Khela. Without looking at her, he buttoned his fly and reached past her, to wash his hands.

Khela was suddenly self-conscious in the face of his impersonal tone.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“No, I think I did,” he answered. “I’m going home.”

“What?” she blurted.

“I need to go home.” His eyes, suddenly somber, seemed to look at everything but Khela. “I need to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

She stared at him for a long moment, confused. Obviously something had happened to bring on this sudden change in him. She racked her brain trying to determine what it could possibly be.

“Do you need any help cleaning up?” he asked, still not meeting her eyes.

“Carter,” she said, her shoulders sagging. “I don’t understand why you’re being this way.”

“What way?”

Khela’s ire began to rise, hardening the edges of the concerned confusion she was feeling.

“One minute you’re screwing my brains out,” she said, making the intimate act they had just shared sound as ugly as possible, “and the next you act like you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Khela.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Look, I just need to go, okay?”

He started for the bedroom, and Khela followed him. “No, it’s not okay. Tell me what’s the matter!”

“I just need some time alone, woman, is that so hard to understand?”

In the bedroom, he gathered up the clothes he’d left at her place piece by piece over the past few days. He shoved them into a black nylon duffel bag and then went into the master bathroom to retrieve his toiletries, Khela on his heels.

“Are you coming back?” she asked, nearly frantic.

“I don’t know.” He brushed past her and went back into the bedroom. He tucked his toiletry kit into the duffel bag, zipped it and slung it over one shoulder.

“The least you could do is tell me why you’re leaving so abruptly,” Khela demanded, hurrying ahead of him to block his exit. “Don’t I deserve at least that much?”