A Self-Made Man (12 page)

“Well.” Travis suddenly looked a little uncomfortable. He fiddled with his empty beer bottle. “I heard that you and Lacy had a…a…” He looked up. “What's the polite word? What do the snobs call it?”

Adam grinned. “A contretemps?”

“Right. One of those. I heard you had a fight. When you two were out on the point.” Travis leaned forward, almost knocking over the bottle. The pretty waitress cast an alarmed look their way. “I heard, bro, that she hauled off and slapped you right in the face.”

“That's right.” Adam sipped his scotch calmly. “She did.”

Travis leaned back, letting the air out of his chest with a deep, dejected whoosh. “Man. I'm sorry, I really am. I know you had been thinking that maybe you… Maybe she… Maybe you and she…” He shrugged, as if suddenly aware that he was treading onto territory they usually roped off-limits. “Well, you know what I mean. I'm just really sorry.”

“Don't be.”

Travis cocked his head, obviously surprised. “Why not?”

“Because it was actually the most encouraging sign I've seen since we got here.”

“Encouraging? Are you nuts? The woman wanted to draw blood. If that's encouraging, what would it take to discourage you?”

“Indifference. Apathy.” Adam took his time, explaining patiently, remembering that four beers always fuzzed Travis's brain just a little. “When it comes to women, fire is always preferable to ice.”

Travis nodded slowly as understanding dawned. “Oh.
Oh, yeah.
I get it.” He sighed again, then rubbed at his face as if all this deep thinking were
making him tired. “So. Now you've started a fire. What are you going to do about it?”

Adam smiled, stood up and tossed a generous tip on the table.

“That's easy,” he said. “I'm going to buy a house.”

B
Y EIGHT ON ANY
summer Saturday morning, not one single parking space was left within three blocks of the Main Street farmer's market. Today, the day of Lacy's long-anticipated progressive dinner, things were even worse. Every serious cook in town was at the market bright and early, fighting over the best supplies.

So Lacy didn't bother looking for a space nearby. She just drove on down to the Crested Plume Antiques store at the end of Main and walked back. It was no hardship. She loved to walk, especially in the early morning, when the salt air smelled fresh, and the distant rumble of waves breaking against the shore could still be heard over the tourist traffic.

It was going to be a beautiful day—hot but breezy, with billowing cumulus clouds already stacking up overhead. She hoped the weather held, because guests at tonight's dinner—billed as The Seafood Stroll—would start at one end of the island and eat their way across town. If the night was clear, the finale would be held at the beach, where the guests would sit on blankets and drink Bellinis under the starlight, while local musicians serenaded from the dunes.

As she had expected, the scene at the market was
bedlam. Mildred Pritchett and Elspeth Jared faced off over a cart of freshly grown herbs, as tense as gunslingers. Over by the fruit stands, the three wives of the Pringle brothers, the island's premiere family, were stuffing melons and citrus into their bags seemingly at random, as if they had won a five-minute, all-you-can grab shopping spree contest.

Tilly was there, too, even though she'd already acquired the fruit necessary for her cream-puff pastry swans, and didn't need anything more from the farmer's market. She was there for the pure excitement of it all.

When Lacy walked up, Tilly was arguing heatedly with the vendor about the price of pears. Her friends were ignoring her—it was a familiar sight. But several tourists had paused to watch the battle. From the fuss Tilly made over an extra nickel, no one could have guessed she was one of the wealthiest women on the island.

“It's all right,” Lacy interjected, putting her arm through Tilly's. “She'll take them, and she'll pay full price.”

Tilly turned with a scowl. “I will not. He's charging a dollar and ninety—”

“She'll take them,” Lacy repeated, squeezing Tilly's arm warningly. She turned to her friend as the man began huffily bagging pears. “Stop trying to beat the fellow down,” she said sternly. “For you it's pure entertainment. For him it's business.”

Tilly hesitated, obviously debating whether to bother taking offense. But then she laughed, throwing back her head in such enthusiastic enjoyment that her
wig wobbled earthward. She reached up and anchored it back into place with one good shove.

“Oh, she's right, she's right,” she said to the vendor, taking the bag of pears and giving him his money. “I love to haggle. You should see me at the bazaar in Morocco.”

“I'd love to,” the man said dourly.

Before Tilly could begin fussing again, Lacy steered her toward the nearby café. “Sit,” she said, pointing to one of the small black iron chairs. “I'll bet the price of one of those pears that you haven't eaten breakfast this morning.”

Tilly's expression was so guilty Lacy almost laughed. But it wasn't funny. It was serious. So she held back her smile and ordered scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast, ignoring Tilly's muttering about Belgian waffles and chocolate croissants.

But soon enough Tilly was happily distracted by the bustle of life around them. Anyone could tell in an instant that it was the peak of the island's tourist season. The quaint, twisting Main Street was jammed with strolling couples, sidewalk artists, skate-boarding teenagers. Within fifteen minutes, half of Tilly's friends had passed by, and she enjoyed telling them how heartless Lacy was about the pastries.

Lacy tuned her out, preferring to listen to the street musicians who had set up an impromptu stage just two doors down from the café. Three shaggy blondes were running through every Beach Boys song they knew, using only a guitar, a keyboard and a tambourine. The air rang with laughter and music, and several couples broke into spontaneous dancing.

Lacy watched them with something that felt strangely like envy. They were so blissfully uninhibited. As if it hadn't ever occurred to them that they looked silly. Malcolm would have found it undignified. But no one else did, Lacy realized as she glanced around. Everyone else seemed to find it delightful, laughing and clapping and singing along, enjoying the show.

A new couple joined the others. Lacy recognized them with a small shock. It was Gwen, dressed as flamboyantly as ever in a neon orange summer dress belted with a lemon-yellow scarf. And her partner was Adam's friend, that darling Travis Rourke, whose Hawaiian print shirt was equally exotic. They looked wonderful dancing together, Lacy thought—full of life, health and sexy charm.

Malcolm would have been livid. His daughter making a spectacle of herself in public! But Malcolm would have been wrong, Lacy realized with a cold certainty. He would have been repressively, witheringly, overbearingly
wrong.

“What's the matter, Lacy?” Tilly put her hand over Lacy's elbow. “I'm just kidding about the Sugar Police thing, you know.”

Lacy smiled. “No, you're not, but that's okay. I
am
the Sugar Police.”

Tilly looked at her closely. “Still,” she said. “Something's wrong. What is it, honey?”

Lacy folded her napkin several times before answering. She wasn't sure how much of the truth to give. But she needed to talk to someone, and Tilly
was the only person she could come close to being honest with.

“I'm not sure,” she began slowly. “I just feel a little…edgy these days.”

“Edgy? About tonight? It's going to be a big hit, honey. It's going to put you over the top, and that neonatal wing is going to get built, I promise.”

Lacy shook her head. “No. Not about tonight. Just generally, about everything. I feel—” She broke off, her gaze following the dancers as they moved laughingly into an updated rendition of the Twist.

How could she say this? That was the entire problem, in a nutshell. She
felt.
For the first time in years, she had started to feel again.

“I feel unsettled,” she said, hoping that would be enough. “It's as if I suddenly don't have complete control over my emotions anymore. I can be happy one minute, and the next minute I'm down. It's not like me. You know I never lose my temper, Tilly. Never. But the other day, I—”

“You slapped Adam Kendall?”

Lacy sighed, abandoning all hope that she hadn't been seen. “You heard about it, then?”

“Of course I heard about it.” Tilly grinned. “This is Pringle Island, sweetheart. The guy serving us these nasty scrambled eggs has heard about it.”

Lacy flushed, tossing her napkin onto the table. “Oh, dear God…”

“But what's so bad about that?” Tilly took a sip of coffee serenely. “They're bored. It gives them something to talk about.”

“I don't want them talking about me. And besides,
that isn't me! I don't do things like that. I don't lose my temper, I don't slap people—”

“Well, I guess you do now.” Tilly looked pleased. “And be honest with yourself, honey. Didn't Adam Kendall deserve slapping?”

“No.” Lacy shook her head. “Well, maybe. Yes. I don't know.” She turned to the older woman helplessly. “Good grief, listen to me, Tilly. I sound like some kind of dithering airhead. This isn't me. I don't dither.”

Tilly's face softened, and she put her hand against Lacy's cheek. “It's all right,” she said. “You're just waking up. And you have to expect things to be a little confusing.”

“Waking up?” Lacy sat as straight as she could, somehow finding Tilly's comment oddly disconcerting. It had the inescapable ring of truth.

“Yes, Sleeping Beauty. Waking up.” Tilly took Lacy's hands and covered them protectively with her own cool, dry palms. “You've been a long time healing. But you were hurt, sweetheart. Horribly hurt. Losing Adam. Losing the baby—”

“Tilly, don't.” Lacy felt a sudden horror that she might cry. When had she begun to shed tears so easily, like summer rain? She hadn't cried in almost ten years, until the past few days.

“Well, it was all very difficult. It was only natural that you should cocoon yourself, giving yourself time to heal. But maybe you're strong enough now to come out. Maybe you're ready to wake up, emerge from the cocoon, and enter the world again.”

Lacy stared at her friend numbly. “What if I don't
want to?” She squeezed Tilly's hands. “What if I liked it better being asleep?”

Tilly reached over and placed a soft kiss on Lacy's cheek. “I'm not sure it's your decision. The anaesthetic is wearing off, and life is calling. You're just going to have to get up and answer.”

Suddenly, a shadow fell over their table. Lacy didn't even look up. She knew who it was. Subconsciously, she moment she'd seen Travis Rourke, she had known Adam must be here, too.

“Good morning, Adam,” Tilly said eagerly, immediately abandoning the earnest tone of their earlier conversation and adopting a bright, flirtatious air. “Thank goodness! Yes, Lacy would like to dance—by all means take her away so I can order something decent to eat!”

“Tilly!” Lacy pressed the older woman's knee under the table. She wasn't quite able to switch gears so easily. And hadn't they just been talking, indirectly at least, about Adam? About the way his reappearance was threatening to ruin Lacy's quiet, controlled existence? Or had she ever quite admitted that her painful awakening had coincided with Adam's return?

“Morning, ladies,” Adam said equably. His mouth was tucked in at one corner, as if he were holding back a smile. “Tilly, I'd love to oblige you, but I'm afraid street dancing is something that happens spontaneously or not at all.”

Tilly grumbled. “Well, pretend it was your idea, then. I'm starving here.”

Adam turned to Lacy obediently. “I know you'll
be stunned to discover that I feel a sudden urge to do the twist. Will you join me?”

What stunned her was that she felt a momentary impulse of her own—a shocking, unprecedented impulse to say “yes.”

How ridiculous! This was what she had meant when she told Tilly she felt “edgy.” How erratic could one woman be? Less than a week ago she had slapped this man in public. Now she was going to
dance
with him? It would look schizophrenic. It would
be
schizophrenic. The rumormongers would be weak with glee.

“I don't think so,” she said, trying for an even, pleasant tone. If she ever did give in to an impulse like this, it wouldn't be with Adam Kendall. “But thank you.”

“Heaven help me, apparently the Sugar Police never rests,” Tilly complained loudly. “Well, thanks for trying. At least she didn't slap you.”

Lacy flushed and stared at Tilly, as much to avoid Adam's eyes as anything else. How could she be so low as to bring this up in front of him? Lacy had considered apologizing to Adam at some point, but she wouldn't be forced into it by a meddling Tilly Barnhardt.

Adam raised one eyebrow. “Not yet,” he said. “But after all, it's still early.”

“Besides, Lacy has her mind on other things,” Tilly explained agreeably. “Tonight is the last big fund-raiser of the neonatal wing campaign. The Seafood Stroll. Have you heard about it? It's five hundred dollars a head, but now that you're rich you won't
mind that, will you? And besides, it's worth every penny. It's the only way to get your hands on any of my famous pastry swans.”

“I've already bought my ticket,” he said with a smile. “Jennifer Lansing talked me into it. Apparently it's also the only way to get one's hands on her famous chilled chicken breasts.”

Tilly chuckled evilly. “Don't you believe it for a minute, son.”

Enough.
Lacy stood. Unfortunately she stood so abruptly that she knocked over Tilly's small glass of orange juice. It made a puddle on the white tablecloth and dripped stickily onto the toe of her bright white tennis shoes. Apparently the newly awakened Lacy was just as clumsy as her stepdaughter.

“Tilly, I'd really better get going,” she said, mopping as fast as she could, dispensing with grace for the moment.
Damn him,
she thought, though she couldn't quite figure out how it was Adam's fault. “I have a lot left to do before tonight.”

Adam tilted his head. The morning sun danced along his high cheekbones and lit the sapphire blue of his eyes. “Anything I could help with?”

“No,” she said quickly, appalled at how those eyes seemed to reach right in and tweak her edgy nerves. “No. I'd just better get going. I've got— So many details still— There's so much—”

“Oh, for heaven's sakes, just run on, then. Adam will see me to my car.” Tilly laughed, patting Lacy on the arm, and turned to Adam with an innocent smile. “Don't worry about Lacy. You see, she woke
up rather late, and she's got a lot of catching up to do.”

 

P
USHING HER HAIR OUT
of her face with a giant mitted hand, Lacy stared down at the cookie tray in dismay. Rows and rows of perfectly shaped question marks, which she had created herself just twenty minutes ago. Every one of them burned to a crisp.

The air in Tilly's state-of-the-art kitchen was acrid with the smell of scorched pastry dough. Lacy looked at the clock—6:45. In one hour and fifteen minutes, the first guests would be arriving. They would sit at Tilly's exquisitely set table, holding shining silver spoons and staring at the empty Limoges plates in front of them. They would be expecting one of the three young servers, all lace-capped and standing at attention, to deliver them each one of Tilly's legendary cream-puff pastry swans.