Summer Breeze Page 8

  “Um,” said Ben.

  “My shorts are wet.” Natalie touched the khaki material. Parts had dried in the sun, but her bum was still soaking.

  Louise went into mother mode. “Natalie, go in the bathroom and take everything off. Ben, show her where the downstairs bathroom is.”

  Natalie followed Ben. In the privacy of the bathroom, she stripped off her shorts and underpants.

  “Are you decent?” Ben asked.

  “My top half is,” she said through the door.

  “Just a moment.”

  She waited. He knocked and opened the door wide enough to toss in a pair of loose black yoga pants, no doubt Bella’s. She pulled them on. She looked at herself in the mirror. Somehow she was both pale and sunburned. Her nose had gotten shiny red from the sun, but the rest of her face was white, and her lips were slightly blue. All in all, highly attractive. Another knock came and a patchwork afghan flew into the bathroom. Natalie wrapped it around her, savoring its warmth.

  She left the bathroom, returned to the living room, and dropped into a chair facing Ben’s mother. She was shocked at how good it felt to sit down.

  “Ben said you were swimming alone, quite far out,” Louise said gently.

  “I know. I’m an idiot. Actually, I didn’t swim that far, I was simply floating on my back, drifting. It’s so peaceful here. I just sort of melted.”

  Louise laughed. “I understand completely. It’s relaxing on the lake when it’s quiet like this. On the weekends, the lake is different, full of people and boats. Are you warming up?”

  “I am. This afghan feels so cozy.”

  “Your color’s returning. You must have had quite a scare.”

  Louise’s concern was so unexpected, so poignant, that tears swam in Natalie’s eyes. “I was frightened,” she admitted. “For a moment there I was certain I was going to die.” Shockingly, tears flooded down her face. Her shoulders shook. “Sorry,” she gulped. “Sorry.”

  “It’s a normal reaction, for heaven’s sake,” Louise told her. “You deserve to cry.”

  Grateful for Louise’s response, Natalie continued to sob. In truth, she wasn’t sure she could stop herself. She’d drawn her knees up to her chest, her feet resting on the chair near her bum, the afghan wrapped completely around her like a nest, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Ben came into the room, took one look at Natalie in tears, muttered, “Oh God,” and hurriedly left.

  “Ben!” Louise called. “Was that a mug of tea in your hand?”

  No answer.

  “Bring it, and be sure there’s plenty of sugar in it, and bring the box of tissues, too. It’s sitting on the counter near the phone.”

  Ben returned, mug of tea in one hand, box in the other.

  Natalie wiped her face, reached for a tissue, dried her hands, and blew her nose. Ben stood next to her, holding the mug, his eyes aimed at the ceiling. Natalie’s fit subsided, leaving her truly exhausted. She took the mug.

  “Thanks, Ben.” She sipped the tea. It was strong and sweet, and she could feel it sink down through her throat, esophagus, and into her stomach, warming her all the way. She closed her eyes and moaned softly, snuggling into the chair.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” Ben said to his mother.

  “Oh, Ben, stay awhile,” Louise coaxed.

  “Sorry, Mom. Gotta go.” Bending down, he kissed the top of his mother’s head. “Bye, Natalie,” he said when he was pretty much out of the room. Then he left, slamming the front door.

  “He saved my life,” Natalie told Louise again. “He was so strong. I was so cold, and choking, and the water seemed to be trying to suck me down.”

  “Honey, don’t think about it. You’re safe now. Put the mug on the table and rest.”

  Natalie did as Louise told her. Her body surrendered its final tension of fight-or-flight response, her head nestled into the chair cushion, and she fell asleep.

  She woke very slowly. Hearing came first, a whisper of pages. Across from her, Louise was reading. Natalie felt warm, perhaps too warm, but as relaxed as if her bones had dissolved. Secretly, she studied Louise. All the Barnabys had the same cheekbones, high and rounded, blue eyes slightly slanted down. Louise’s forehead was etched with wrinkles, and her lower jaw sagged slightly, but she was beautiful, especially now while she was in repose. She had about her the meditative calm of a Vermeer.

  Natalie cleared her throat and shifted position.

  Louise looked up. “Feeling better, dear?”

  “Oh yes.” Natalie stretched her arms. “Thanks for letting me sleep in your living room.” She sat up straight, feet on the floor, letting the afghan slide away.

  “Hungry?”

  Natalie stood up. “Not really. I was working on a painting and decided to cool off in the lake. That’s what started my idiotic adventure. There’s still good light. I think I’ll go back to work.” She folded the afghan and laid it neatly over the back of the chair. She plumped the chair cushions.

  “You’re sure you’re all right?” Louise asked.

  “Perfectly normal. Well, I might take a shower and change clothes.” She looked down at what she wore. “I’ll wash these things and bring them back.” She started to leave, then hesitated. “I wonder, I’d like to get Ben something to thank him for rescuing me. I don’t think the etiquette book covers such a situation. Any advice?”

  Louise chuckled. “You don’t have to give him a present.” Her eyes twinkled. “He seemed quite pleased with himself for saving you.”

  He did? Natalie almost asked Louise how she could spot any emotion Ben might have. But, of course, Ben was Louise’s son. She knew him well. Natalie thanked Louise once more and left the Barnaby house, warmed from the tea, the afghan, and the thought of being in Ben Barnaby’s arms.

  6

  Friday morning, Bella left the top half of the blue Dutch door open to let the fragrant summer air sweep into the gift shop. She didn’t expect many customers, not on this glorious early summer day, and Aaron was out in California at his damned interview, so she wore sneakers, jeans, and a tank top, planning to move furniture around, experimenting.

  Bella could remember when she was a child, tumbling off the school bus and into the house to find her mother at the kitchen table, quietly studying a storybook mole’s tilt of nose or whether its whiskers went up, down, or straight out. She sculpted the minute creature in clay, baked it, and sewed soft velvet skin on it before painting its face. Her mother had seemed like a sorceress, capable of anything. Beatrice and Bella would go with their mother to help set up the Lake Worlds in the shop, carrying the boxes of handcrafted animals as if they were made of gold.

  That was years ago. DVDs were new. Cell phones were large and clunky. Computers were slow, Facebook didn’t exist, and eBay was just beginning. Now children played with games on computers, or Nintendo DS, Wii, Xbox, or their iPhones. Bella’s mother still ran her business without the use of a computer, keeping sales, inventory, and tax records in a notebook by hand. Louise sold horse-and-buggy gifts in an Internet world.

  The store had to change if it was to continue. Soon—tonight, perhaps—Bella wanted to sit down with her parents and discuss possible alterations to the shop.

  The image of Natalie’s still life of apples in a silver bowl kept haunting Bella. Well, of course, there was something so symbolic about apples, wasn’t there?—the witch offering Snow White an apple, the apple in the Garden of Eden. Her idea was to hang the picture above one of her mother’s Lake Worlds: There was one in an orchard with a raccoon family picnicking on fallen apples. Or would that be too weird? Maybe, maybe not. Bella wanted to try it. She wanted to try a lot of things—her mind was teeming with ideas.

  She would go through the store today, organize her thoughts, and make a sketch, a kind of presentation to show her parents. They would give her good advice, she knew.

  Bella walked around the shop, studying the display cases, the exhibits, the spaces. Lucy Lattimer’s stuffed dolls
with stitched eyes and smiles were, to Bella’s mind, a complete waste of space. She didn’t know if they had ever sold even one of the dolls. They were quaint, but in a way they were also a bit creepy, because Lucy’s stitching was uneven, giving the dolls cartoon faces, jack-o’-lantern faces. Lucy was the mother of a friend of Louise’s; she had been in her eighties, living with her daughter. Bella could remember specifically ganging up with Beatrice against Louise, demanding to know why she wanted to take up space with those bizarro items.

  “It gives Lucy something to do,” Louise had told them. “It lets her feel capable of making something pretty.”

  “In other words,” said Beatrice—who, as the oldest child, could be caustic with her mother when she felt like it—“you’re helping your friend by keeping her mother out of her hair for a while.”

  “You’re a cynical child,” Louise had retorted mildly, but her mouth had quirked up and she hadn’t denied the accusation.

  Lucy Lattimer must be in her nineties now. These dolls were sixteen years old, and their sweet milkmaid costumes were limp. For that matter, Lucy herself hadn’t come into the shop for years—Bella didn’t know if she was even ambulatory.

  If she could get rid of the dolls, cover the corny murals on the walls, focus more on the furniture, and perhaps bring in some art, some of Natalie’s work to begin with …

  She was aware of an approaching motor, and all of its own accord, her heart leapt. Before she could stand up, she heard the bell tinkle and the bottom half of the blue door open and shut.

  Bella stood up, turned toward the door, and saw Slade standing there.

  “Slade!” Was she blushing or did she just feel hot?

  “Hey.” He was long and lean in black jeans and a black tee shirt. He took his sunglasses off as he walked toward her. “Wow,” he said.

  A shiver feathered down Bella’s spine. “Wow?”

  He walked right up to her, so close they were almost touching. Reaching out his hand, he stroked the gargoyle cabinet. “I thought so,” he mumbled, talking to himself. “This is the real deal. It needs to be stripped.”

  “It’s nice to see you again, too,” Bella said, lacing her voice with just a thread of sarcasm.

  “What?” Slade cast a quick glance Bella’s way.

  His eyes were the deepest blue.

  “Hello?” Bella said.

  Slade got it. “Sorry. Hi, Bella. I’ve just been thinking about this piece for days now. I wasn’t sure it was original. You don’t see many like this, but this is the real thing. Bella, your family must be English.”

  “Well, duh, Barnaby.” Something about the man made Bella defensive, like a goofy adolescent talking with a rock star.

  “I’ve been checking. This piece, Bella”—Slade slapped his hand against it gently—“this piece could bring you around fifteen thousand dollars.”

  She almost fell over. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding. This is my field of expertise. This is what I do.” He peered at her as if she were a newt emerging from under a rock. “You don’t have any idea what you’ve got here, do you?”

  “Well, sort of. I’ve always loved my grandparents’ furniture, and when they died, I insisted on having some of their pieces in my bedroom, even though they’re big, dark, and not the slightest bit girly.”

  He leaned toward her. “You have more pieces like this?” Before she could answer, he grabbed both her shoulders. “Bella, this is something antiques dealers dream about! A find like this!”

  Bella was paralyzed by his touch, his nearness, his dark beauty, his passion. She knew her mouth was hanging open and she couldn’t locate the intelligence needed to shut it.

  “Don’t look at me that way.” Slade removed his hands from her shoulders. “I’m not trying to cheat you. If I were, why would I tell you what these pieces are worth?”

  Bella found her voice. “Then what do you want to do?”

  “I want to work with you. I want to sell these pieces on commission for you.”

  “Slade, these all belong to my parents.”

  “Then talk to them.”

  “Slade. Do you think you could slow down just a little? How about a cup of coffee? No, wait. The last thing you need is coffee. Come to the back room. I’ve got lemonade and some cinnamon rolls I made yesterday morning.”

  He started to object, then nodded and loped along behind her, past the display counter, into the back room. Past the small bathroom (sweetly decorated, because children always needed to go to the bathroom). Past boxes needing to be packed or unpacked. Past worktables and a sink and counter. Past her mother’s ancient, scarred rolltop desk, past the ironing board and the cutting table, to the private area with the small refrigerator, microwave, round table, and chairs. Bella’s purse hung on a hook, near a mirror. She couldn’t resist giving herself a quick glance.

  “That rolltop desk is nice,” Slade said.

  “Sit down.” She pointed. “There.” Taking a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator, she poured him a glass, set it before him, then slid one of her cinnamon rolls onto a plate and placed it in front of him, too. She handed him a knife and fork. She put the other rolls on the table as well, in case he wanted more. She poured herself a glass of lemonade and sat down. By that time, Slade had eaten his roll and was reaching for another.

  “Damn,” he mumbled, his mouth full, “these are good.”

  “Thanks.” Bella took a roll, though she wasn’t hungry. She drew designs in the icing with her fork as she talked, figuring out what she wanted to say as she went along. “Slade. Tell me. How did you learn so much about furniture?”

  “I went to New York’s Metropolitan Museum School of Antique Furniture.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  He cast her a withering glance. “No, there’s not, and if there were, I couldn’t have gone. I barely had the money to go to college for two years. I just like to tell people that when they ask me.”

  “Well, I’m not ‘people,’ ” Bella told him.

  He studied her for a long, drawn-out moment. “No, you most certainly are not.”

  It took all her willpower not to squirm in her chair. This man was so divine he was undoubtedly used to getting his way, simply by melting a woman’s resolve with the flame-tip heat of his dark blue eyes. Add some subtle flirtation, and women probably just fell right over into his arms. “Could you answer the question?” she managed to say.

  He sighed, leaning in his chair so that it tilted onto the two back legs. As if he couldn’t care less. “When I was a boy, I worked after school and summers for a guy who ran an antiques shop up in Maine. Mostly he carried primitive American antiques, lots of Empire furniture, china, candlesticks. That stuff. Sometimes I’d go off with him on a trip up north to scout out antiques in small towns. Even now you can still find treasures, especially at farm auctions or even yard sales in towns so far away no one ever takes the time to drive there. I learned a lot from him.” He dropped forward to munch down another roll.

  Bella loved seeing him eat. He was so thin. “More lemonade?”

  “Please.”

  She poured him another glass. “And then?”

  “Then I went to college for two years in Boston, and worked for Aunt Eleanor sometimes, helping cart furniture around to other people’s homes. I think I learned the most there, seeing the way people with money like to decorate. Some people stick with a period, some like to mix it up. I met a guy named Dave Ralston who was good at restoration, dropped out of college, and went to work for Ralston’s Antiques. Learned a ton there.”

  “You’ve always been interested in wood,” Bella mused.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “I have?”

  “When you were a kid, you used to go into the forest and stand very still studying tree trunks.”

  Slade’s eyes went dead. “Jesus, what a freak.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Bella protested. “You could call yourself a child prodigy.”

>   Slade snorted. “A child prodigy of tree trunks?”

  Bella took a deep breath. “Look. I’m interested in what you know about furniture. I want to update this shop.”

  “Upscale, you mean.”

  “No, I meant update, but upscale is not a bad idea either. A lot of the stuff here is inexpensive, and certainly none of it is worth what you say the furniture is worth. But I’ve been thinking … it’s not clear yet.… I know I don’t want to run an antiques store. I want to carry a mix of things. I’m still in the planning process. I had no idea that old cabinet was worth so much, and even though I’ve taken a couple of courses, I really don’t know Early American from British. I wonder, could I hire you to check out all the furniture and give me estimates on its value?”

  Slade’s eyes had come alive again. He dropped his eyelids halfway in that sleepy kind of “come to bed” look he did so well, and behind the lids was the glint of mischief. “I’d be glad to value the furniture. You don’t have to pay me.”

  “Slade, seriously—”

  “Seriously. Or, I’ll tell you what, take me out to dinner sometime.”

  Okay, Bella thought, now he was coming on to her, and her body was making it clear it had no intention of resisting. If Slade were to rise from his chair right now, grab Bella, and press his sensual mouth against hers, she’d knock the lemonade and rolls on the floor and let him ravish her right here on this old table.

  From deep in some survival center of her brain, a stern voice that sounded much like her algebra teacher, Mrs. Penner, warned, Remember what Natalie told you. Slade is a bad boy. He comes on to women all the time. It means nothing.

  Another voice, smaller, slightly ashamed, her own, said, Bella, for heaven’s sake. Remember Aaron.

  She leaned forward, planting her elbows on the table, well aware that this position gave him a pretty fine view of the tops of her breasts pressing against the curve of her tank top. “I’ll take you out to dinner. The best restaurant in the area.”

  Slade considered her. Again, he allowed himself his own sweet time. Bella had no option, unless she wanted to show herself as the coward she secretly felt like, but to hold her pose and stare right back at him.