Lakeside Cottage (16 page)

He got out of the truck and came toward her, and the flutter escalated to a storm. He looked… Golden, that was the word that came to mind. He shone. In khaki slacks that fit his slim hips, a golf shirt and navy blazer, he had an unexpected air of grace. He wasn’t smiling; he almost never did, but she suspected that behind the dark glasses, his eyes were shining.

Unlike him, she couldn’t keep from grinning as he approached her.

“You’re slaying me, Kate,” he said. “That dress is a lethal weapon.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, grabbing a light wrap and draping it over her arm. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

He said hello to the kids. Then, as she told them goodbye, Kate struggled against the impulse to go down the list of admonishments yet again. Callie had more than
proven herself to be equal to Aaron’s behavior. Kate had to trust that they would be all right.

“You’re too quiet,” JD said as they drove away.

She focused on a small St. Christopher medal swinging from the rearview mirror of the truck. “Thinking about everything that could go wrong. They’ve got no phone, no way to get in touch with me.”

“The park ranger station is a few hundred yards away,” he reminded her. “Quit worrying and relax.”

“When you have a child, worrying is second nature.”

“Only if you let it take you over.”

“I don’t know any other way to be.”

“Then you have a lot to learn. Like, if you spend the evening worrying, we’ll both have a bad time.”

She knew then why her dates never worked out. Her worrying—not the fact that she had a child—made them miserable. She pressed back against the seat and vowed it would not happen tonight. She’d relax, enjoy the evening. Lord knew, this man was worth the effort.

He took her to C’est Si Bon, an unlikely restaurant with an even more unlikely name. In a town like Port Angeles, diners and roadhouses were the norm. Yet for years, the French restaurant had flourished at the side of the highway, a gastronomic oasis with a fantastic garden and interior decor of pink and gold, which had not been changed in decades.

“Have you been here before?” Kate asked him.

“No, but Sam made me promise I wouldn’t miss it.”

“He’s right,” she said. “You’ve never been anywhere quite like this.”

The small, energetic woman who greeted them at the entrance lit up when she recognized Kate.
“Oh, la belle,”
she exclaimed.
“Et vous êtes retournée enfin.”

Kate barely spoke a word of French, but the effusive greeting needed no translation.

“Bienvenu, monsieur, je suis enchantée,”
said the hostess.

“Merci pour nous avoir ce soir,”
he said in what Kate suspected was perfect French. So much for thinking he was an uneducated bumpkin.

Even the hostess looked startled and impressed.
“Alors,”
she said, picking up menus and the wine list.
“Á table.”

The waiter lit a candle at one of Kate’s favorite white linen-draped tables, a private one tucked in a glass-enclosed alcove. A jar of dahlias and settings of Limoges china created a palpable air of romance.

“You speak French,” Kate observed.

“I get by.” He put on his glasses, flipped open the wine list and his menu.

“Where did you study French?” she asked, even though he seemed preoccupied with reading the selections.

“I was friends with a Haitian kid, growing up,” he said. “Later I took classes in French and Spanish.”

“Was that part of your military training?”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t elaborate.

“I never would have pegged you for a guy who speaks French,” she said. “Why not?”

“Must have been the work boots and plaid shirt.”

“Maybe I’m French-Canadian.”

“Are you?”

“You’re a snob,” he observed.

“I am, aren’t I?”

He turned the wine list over to her. “I’m not so good at wine,” he said. “You pick something.”

The waiter arrived to take their bar order. Kate sus
pected JD was desperate for a beer, so she suggested a Kronenbourg from the Alsace-Lorraine region of France. She also ordered a bottle of Vouvray to go with dinner.

For dinner, they ordered coquilles St. Jacques with pommes Anna, followed by a salad of fresh greens with walnuts and Roquefort cheese. Kate had a funny feeling, not about JD but about other patrons of the restaurant. She noticed people staring at them a time or two, though they were always looking the other way when she tried to make eye contact. JD drew his shoulders forward and lowered his head, and Kate started to think the attention from strangers was a figment of her imagination. He was a hunk, she reminded herself, and she was wearing a tight designer dress, one of the perks of her former job. It struck her that tonight they looked like one of those couples she often regarded with envy—young and attractive, gazing at each other longingly.

“You look happy about something,” he said.

“I am happy. I like going out. Never had the chance when Aaron was little, so this is a treat for me.” Nice segue, she thought, beaming at him. “What about you? Do you date much?”

“No.”

She realized he wasn’t going to elaborate. “Well, then,” she said when the first course was served, “should I start the round of Twenty Questions or will you do the honors?”

“What questions?”

“The getting-to-know-you questions.”

“I don’t have any of those,” he said. “I know all I need to know about you.”

“That’s impossible.”

He took a sip of beer. “It’s true.”

His certainty struck a chord in her. A highly resonant chord.

“All right,” she said, “what do you know about me?”

“Fishing for compliments?” he asked.

“Huh. Challenging you to put your money where your mouth is.”

“Fine. Here’s what I know about you. You’re smart and you brought enough novels with you to read one every day of the summer. Although you’re not athletic, you pretend to be in order to encourage Aaron. He’s the number one priority in your life. You’re missing your family a lot this summer, even more than you thought you would. How am I doing?”

“Remarkably well.” She shifted a little in her seat, startled by his observations.

“You look surprised.”

“I am. Most men I’ve gone out with tend to focus the conversation on themselves,” she admitted. “They hardly notice the color of my hair, or if they did, it’s only to ask if I’m a natural redhead—nudge, nudge, wink, wink.” Her cheeks flushed. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“I won’t ask, then,” JD assured her, then added, “I’ll find out on my own. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.”

She held out her wineglass. “I need a refill.”

He managed to pour without taking his eyes off her. “You haven’t been seeing the right guys,” he said.

“Not at all.”

“Then I have good news for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Your luck is about to change.”

She felt warm and shivery all at once, a sensation she had not felt in ages, maybe never. “You sound awfully sure of yourself,” she said.

“I am sure.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“I know how to read a menu in French, I suck at fly-fishing but I can fillet a trout. I’m handy with tools. Kids and dogs like me.”

“I figured all that out on my own,” she said.

“Favorite color, blue. Favorite song, ‘Radio America’ by the Libertines, but that changes weekly. I don’t like TV sports, heights or crowds. I do like pickup trucks, quiet places and loyal friends. And you. I like you. What more do you need to know?”

Her head was reeling—in a good way—from his list.

“What does JD stand for?”

“Juris Doctorate, for one thing.”

“Very funny. Does that mean you’re a lawyer?”

“No. Pulling your leg.”

“So what does it stand for? Really?”

“Just dandy? John Deere?”

“Oh, I get it. You were named after J. D. Salinger.” She glared at him. “Maybe Aaron is right. Maybe I do need to Google you on the Internet.”

“You mean you haven’t already? I Googled you.”

“What?” She felt her color fade, probably leaving nothing but freckles behind.

“You’re either a professor of semiotics at Cooper Union, or the star of an Internet porno site.”

“Guilty as charged,” she said, feeling her face fill up with color again.

“Of which one?”

“Maybe both,” she said.

His grin faded. “I didn’t really look you up, Kate.”

She felt such ease when she looked into his eyes. “I didn’t look you up, either. Search engines are overrated
when it comes to getting to know someone.” She paused. “John David.”

He looked at her. “What?”

“I bet your initials stand for John and David.”

He put his hand on top of hers, and she caught her breath. She could not believe the way that simple gesture set off a chain of such complicated reactions.

It was the first time he had deliberately touched her. His first physical acknowledgment of the attraction she had felt toward him from the very first time she’d seen him. She studied their joined hands. Was there anything sexier than this man’s hand, cradling hers as though it was something precious and fragile?

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She cleared her throat, tried to drop the silly smile as she held up her glass of wine. “We are very agreeable this evening,” she observed.

“Then my plan is working,” he said.

“You have a plan?”

He didn’t reply to that, but showed great appreciation for the cuisine—luscious scallops in buttery sauce, more wine and a good deal more flirting. Kate felt relaxed and natural with him.

His gaze traveled over her, lingering here and there.

Just as she started to squirm, the waiter approached the table. “Will there be anything else?”

JD didn’t take his eyes off her. “Uh, yeah.” Then he blinked, struggling so visibly to snap out of it that Kate laughed. “Check, please.”

At the door, JD held out her wrap for her, his hands cupping her shoulders and lingering there as the restaurant owner came to say goodbye.

“Dinner was delicious,” Kate told him.

“All the more so when consumed in pleasant company.”

“Of course.”

“Bonsoir, les amis.”
He winked at JD.
“C’est un bon soir pour sauter la femme.”

“What did he say to you?” she asked as JD held the door for her.

“He told us to have a good evening.” His ears were bright red, hinting at a different translation.

“Liar. I can see right through you.”

“What?” He looked perfectly innocent as he pulled open the passenger door of the truck.

Kate refused to have a seat. She stared challengingly up at him. “Tell me what he said.”

“It was very…French.”

“French as in rude?”

“French as in frank.”

She touched his cheek. “My God. You’re blushing.”

“I don’t blush.”

“Yes, apparently you do. It’s so cute that you’re blushing.”

“I don’t blush and I’m not cute.”

“Now I have to know.” Kate braced her arm on the truck door. “I’m not going to budge until you tell me what that man said.”

JD took a deep breath. He placed one hand on either side of her, leaning close. Humor glinted in his eyes. “He said—” JD bent and whispered the rest in her ear, his breath warm and tantalizing, the suggestion he whispered, scorching hot.

“Oh, God,” said Kate.

He grinned at her and stepped even closer, his hips brushing hers. “Who’s blushing now?”

“C
ome on, kid,” said Callie. “You promised if I read to you, you’d go to sleep by nine.”

“Wrong,” said Aaron, wide awake in his quilt-covered bed. “I said I’d go to bed by nine. Sleeping’s a different story.”

Sleep sounded delicious to Callie. She was tired. Lately, she felt tired all the time, and it wasn’t just the hard work that caused it. Sometimes she felt low and draggy even on her days off. At least she had a great place to stay, she reminded herself. She couldn’t get over what a good feeling it was to come home to Kate’s house at the end of a long day and find a place all straightened up, dinner on the table. Kate and Aaron always waited for her to get home so they could all eat together. They said a blessing before the meal. To Callie, they were remarkable and rare, even though they didn’t see anything unusual about themselves.

It was driving her crazy to keep quiet about JD, even though she knew she would honor the promise she’d made him. But talk about unusual. He was the guy. The
one who had been all over the news, who was still in the celebrity mags and on the TV gossip shows. She thought he was totally nuts to be hiding away instead of living like a celebrity. Cars, boats, houses, travel, parties…why would he shy away from that? These were the things most people dreamed about, and he could have them if he played his cards right. The weird thing was, he seemed perfectly content hanging out at the lake where nobody knew him.

Takes all kinds, she thought. And lately, there was a strong incentive for him to stay put, right here at the lake. Whenever he came around, Callie could see the chemistry between him and Kate getting stronger. And the weird thing was, Kate didn’t know. She liked him as plain old JD, without even realizing he was Captain America, pride of the U.S. Army, winner of the Presidential Medal of Honor.

She had found some information about the medal in an ancient set of encyclopedias that Kate said had been in the family for years. It was an extremely rare honor, the highest military decoration in the United States of America. It was awarded “for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life, above and beyond the call of duty.”

No shit, Sherlock, she thought, flashing on horrific images that had played on the TV news, over and over again last Christmas. She totally couldn’t believe no one had figured out he was Jordan Donovan Harris. She’d been just as fooled, though, she reminded herself. What was it JD had said? People saw what they expected to see. That sure as hell was true in her case.

Take Luke Newman, for example. Luke of the dark hair and dreamy eyes. What did he see when he looked
at her? A fat chick or a girl just trying to get by? A friend or something else, something romantic?

“Yo, earth to Callie,” Aaron said. “Let’s read some more.”

“I already read you two chapters of
Soup and Me.
”

“Fine. Pick something else.”

She took in a deep breath, for patience. “One more,” she told him. “One more, and you’re reading it to me.”

“Aw, Callie.” He squirmed restlessly in bed.

“Nope, that’s the deal. Take it or leave it.” She knew he had trouble with his reading. Kate had explained that he had trouble with pretty much everything having to do with school. Browsing a painted bookcase, she looked for something short and simple so as not to put him on the spot. “I’ll go easy on you and pick something short.

“You’ve got quite a collection here,” she said.

“It’s not mine. It belongs to the lake house.”

Everything here belonged, Callie thought. She would never admit it to anyone, but sometimes she pretended she belonged here, too, part of a family that handed quilts and picture albums down through generations, and upheld traditions that made everyone feel happy and included. It was a lame fantasy, but sometimes she couldn’t help wondering what it would really be like.

The bookcase held everything from Peter Pan to Nancy Drew to Harry Potter, but she didn’t want to make him struggle with a novel. “This one,” she said, selecting a glossy picture book.
“The Little Red Hen.”
It featured a drawing of a plump, happy-looking chicken dressed like a housewife in an apron and kerchief.

“You’ve got to be kidding. That’s a baby book.”

“Then you’ll get through it quick. Or would you rather
read something longer?” She showed him the Harry Potter tome.

“Forget that.” He pushed it away, and she handed him
The Little Red Hen.

“It’s a dumb story,” he said.

“Why not let me be the judge of that?” She flipped open the book.

He gaped at her. “You don’t know the story?”

“Nope.” As a kid, she had missed out on all of Mother Goose because Brother Timothy had found talking animals and wish-fulfillment stories objectionable. Pedophilia, he had no problem with, but Old Mother Hubbard was a deviant. “Go ahead,” she said to Aaron. “Humor me.”

“Fine,” he said in a long-suffering tone. He scooted up in bed and began reading. The story turned out to be a good choice for him, with simple words and repeated phrases: “Who will help me?” the Little Red Hen kept asking everyone in sight.

And the answer was always the same: “Not I. Not I. Not I.”

Callie could totally relate. When the commune finally got busted, the caseworkers tried to place her with relatives, but they all took one look at Callie—overweight, with bad skin and a worse attitude—and said, “Not I,” until she had to go into foster care.

She thought about Kate, and what an unexpected gift she was, like an angel. Asking only very few questions, Kate had let her stay, treating her first like a guest and then like a friend, or maybe even a niece or something. Kate was the first person Callie had ever met who had refused to say, “Not I.” She did just the opposite, saying “I will. I’ll help,” and actually meaning it.

And Callie tried to repay her by being a good house
guest, but there was no denying that she was a big fat phony.

She found herself actually getting tense as the Little Red Hen was forced to do everything all by herself—cutting the wheat, threshing it (whatever that was), grinding it into flour, making the dough, baking the bread. It was work, work, work, all day every day and her loser friends didn’t lift a finger—or a hoof—to help.

And as if she didn’t have enough to do, the Little Red Hen had some eggs to hatch. She wound up with six babies and, not surprisingly, no rooster in sight to help with all those mouths to feed.

The hen wasn’t daunted, though. She soldiered on, making the bread, hatching the eggs, facing the world with bold defiance. Callie was delighted when the bread turned out perfect. Drawn by its fragrance, the barnyard animals gathered around, now eager for a taste, of course.

The Little Red Hen’s triumph was sweet when she turned them all away, letting them know in no uncertain terms that since they weren’t there for her when she had so much work to do, she wouldn’t share the finished product with them. There she was, a single mother doing all the work, and no one would give her a break when she needed help. She showed them.

“…aaand she did,” Aaron concluded, reading the last line with a dramatic flourish.

“Cool,” said Callie. “I like that story.”

Aaron made a face. “You do?”

“Sure. It’s a story of personal triumph over adversity, don’t you think? She did everything her way, and by the end, she made it on her own. Good for her.”

“She lost all her friends.” Aaron shut the book and handed it over. “What’s good about that?”

“They weren’t friends. They were users,” said Callie. Even though it was a fairy tale, she felt the truth of it in her bones. “Her babies sure did like her, though.”