That Summer Place (17 page)

“J
ohn,” Beth said after Paul and Nikki had left the kitchen. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, mortified to the very marrow of her bones. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“I’m not.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You can’t possibly mean…” Rather than put words in his mouth, she clamped hers closed and decided to let him talk.

“I take it Nikki’s been discussing the idea of you and me getting married?”

She nodded. “She volunteered to baby-sit.”

“Baby-sit?”

“Later.” She motioned for him to go on. “You’d better tell me what Paul had to say.”

“Simply that I need you in my life.”

She wasn’t sure how to comment or if she should.

“I don’t know if Paul’s given much thought to a career, but I think the boy would make a fine lawyer. His argument was very persuasive.”

“You aren’t actually considering…I mean…”

“That’s up to you,” John said.

“Me?”

“He’s right. I do need you, Beth.”

“But…” Her vocabulary seemed to be reduced to words of one syllable.

“Yes?” he urged when she didn’t immediately continue.

“Marriage?”

“Well, that might be putting the cart before the horse.”

She felt a flood of relief, replaced almost immediately by a surge of disappointment. “I…Naturally it’s too soon. I mean, it’s only been three weeks, and—”

“Could you love me, Beth?” he asked. His eyes were tender and vulnerable, almost as if he feared her response and at the same time hungered to know the truth.

Her reply was immediate. “Yes,” she whispered. She was halfway there and struggling to keep from falling head over heels for him as it was. “Could you…love
me?
” she asked.

His smile told her everything she needed to know.

John held out his arms and she walked into his embrace. He hadn’t so much as kissed her when there was a knock at the kitchen door.

“Can we come in yet?” Nikki shouted from the other side.

“Can they?” John asked. He’d slid his arms around her waist and smiled down at her.

“What did I just agree to?” Beth asked.

“To love me and my daughter.”

“No problem.” She smiled up at him, knowing her feelings shone from her eyes.

“To share my life.”

“Marriage?” she asked again.

“In time, but I think it’d be better if we took a few months to really get to know each other first.”

“I agree.” They were older, more mature, and with maturity came a certain wisdom. Neither of them needed to rush into a second marriage, not with the numerous complications they already faced.

“Dad?” Nikki shouted. “At least tell us what’s happening. We have a right to know.”

“Hold on,” John called back.

“Nikki mentioned another child,” Beth said, her eyes avoiding his. John had no way of knowing how much she’d yearned for a second child. Jim hadn’t been keen on the idea and found one excuse after another to put her off.

“Are you interested in having more children?” he asked, his face intent.

She nodded eagerly.

John’s returning grin was bright enough to rival the sun. “Me, too.”

“Where would we live?”

“I have a job offer in Seattle,” he said to her astonishment. “Should be firmed up this week.”

That was a possibility she hadn’t even considered. Living in Seattle…

“Mom.” Paul’s impatient voice sounded from the other side of the door.

“All in good time,” she promised him, “all in good time.”

“Do you think I should accept it?” John asked.

“Well, moving to L.A. would be one option. Mary Jane and her family live there,” she said, thinking out loud. They’d been friends almost their entire lives, and being closer to her definitely appealed to Beth. But starting over with John on fresh ground held an even stronger appeal. “I like the idea of moving to Seattle.”

“Paul said—”

“Dad,” Nikki complained loudly. “Just how long is this going to take? You love Beth and you know it.”

John leaned his forehead against Beth’s. “Why do I have the feeling those two are doing their best to keep us physically frustrated?”

Beth threw her arms around his neck. “Kiss me first. Just once.”

He complied, slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss that was slow and thorough. When he lifted his head, Beth moaned in protest. She never wanted it to end. Then he was kissing her again with a need that had grown even more intense.

“They’re kissing,” Nikki shouted, and hurled open the kitchen door. “You’ve obviously agreed to something!” she declared, arms akimbo.

“We’ve agreed not to let kids meddle in our lives,” John told them. He and Beth stood side by side, arms wrapped around each other’s waists.

Beth caught a wink between John and her son.

“When’s the wedding?” Nikki asked.

John and Beth looked at each other. “We don’t know yet,” Beth answered.

“When will you?” Nikki wasn’t giving up easily.

Again John and Beth exchanged looks. “Soon,” John promised.

“Soon for the wedding? Or soon you’ll know?”

“I think we could easily have
two
attorneys in the family,” Beth whispered.

John grinned and dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “Yes, to both,” he assured his daughter.

Nikki and Paul shouted with joy and exchanged a high five.

“I told you all they needed was someone to point them in the right direction,” Nikki reminded him, as though the whole thing had been her idea.

Beth felt a smile touch the corners of her mouth. “I suggest we save the debates for later. As it is, there’s plenty to decide and even more to discuss.”

“Why don’t we all sit down and talk this out?” John suggested.

“That’s what you said the day we arrived,” Nikki remembered. She slid into the booth and patted the empty seat beside her for her dad.

Saturday night Beth found her son sitting on the beach long after midnight. “I wondered where you’d gone,” she said, lowering herself onto the sand next to him.

“I was just thinking.”

It was their last night at Rainshadow Lodge, and everything was packed for the trip out in the morning. Their last two days in the state had been spent exploring downtown Seattle. They’d ridden the monorail, gone up to the observation deck of the Space Needle, even toured underground Seattle. By all rights, Paul should be exhausted.

“Mom,” Paul said, his voice little more than a whisper, “were you and Dad happy?”

She didn’t know what had prompted that question. “I thought we were,” she whispered back.

His chest heaved with a sigh as he turned to study her face in the moonlight. He frowned, and Beth raised her hand to cup his jaw, staring at him, noting his hurt and anger.

“How long have you known?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

He hesitated. “I…saw Dad with her about a month before the accident.”

Beth swallowed tightly and closed her eyes against the unexpected flash of pain. “I…wanted to protect you.”

“I didn’t want you to know. I was afraid…”

“Of what?” she prodded, seeing her son struggle with the words.

“I don’t understand why he did it,” Paul blurted. “She wasn’t even pretty.”

“Paul…Paul.” She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight, understanding that, in betraying her, Jim had also betrayed his son’s trust and allegiance.

“Sometimes I think I hate him.”

“Your father had his faults,” she told him, and kissed the top of his head. “I can’t—won’t—defend his affair, but I can tell you this with complete and utter confidence. He loved you, Paul. You made him so very proud.”

She felt the emotional conflict within her son and thought for a moment that he might break down and cry. He stiffened with the pain, then regained his composure and nodded. “I loved him, too.”

“So did I,” Beth whispered, and hugged her son close to her heart.

“Are you ready?” Mary Jane asked, opening the door to the master bedroom. Beth and Paul had moved into the Seattle house just that week.

Beth cast one last glance at her reflection in the full-length mirror and nodded. She doubted any bride had ever been more ready for her husband than she was for John. So much had changed in the past few months. Her house had been sold. His, too. A new job for him and one for her, with the same hotel chain that had hired her in St. Louis. A new start for them both. And a new start for Paul and Nikki, who’d helped bring all of this about.

“I’ve never known anyone to put together a wedding as fast as the two of you,” Mary Jane said as she handed Beth the bridal bouquet.

“It was either marry the man or hand over my life savings to the telephone company. Besides, we’re in love and we didn’t want to spend the Christmas holidays apart.”

Someone knocked gently on the door, and Nikki entered the bedroom. “He’s a nervous wreck.”

“Your dad?”

“No, Paul. He’s never been a best man before. I’ve never been a maid of honor, but I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up. Are we ready to leave for the church or not?”

“Ready,” Mary Jane answered, and dabbed at her eyes.

“Mary Jane,” Nikki chastised.

“Don’t mind me,” Beth’s friend sobbed. “I always cry at weddings.”

Dave met the small troupe at the bottom of the stairs. “Your chariot awaits you,” he said, and made a courtly gesture toward the front door. A stretch limo was parked outside.

“By the way,” he asked as Beth swept past him. “Where’s the honeymoon taking place?”

She didn’t get a chance to respond. Nikki answered for her. “Rainshadow Lodge, of course. Where else?”

Susan Wiggs

Dear Reader,

Before I became a writer, I was a teacher, so I never really lost my childlike anticipation of that magical time of year known as “summer.” For this reason, I wanted to bring that special feeling into the story
Island Time.
I’m also delighted to have the opportunity to be published with two of my favorite authors and dearest friends, Debbie Macomber and Jill Barnett.

Spending the summer at one particular place, year after year, conjures up a heady sense of romance and nostalgia for me. Even a pair as mismatched as Mitch and Rosie can’t resist the spell cast by the idyllic Rainshadow Lodge, because summer is as much a state of mind as a time of the year. Like the sunshine and new growth, it’s a season of possibility and promise—the perfect time to fall in love.

Wishing you many happy summers,

Susan Wiggs

Box 4469

Rolling Bay, WA 98061

To my grandmother, Marie Banfield,
who celebrates her birthday every summer.
I love you, Gram.

Thanks to Dianne Moggy of MIRA Books,
for her vision,
to Martha Keenan of MIRA Books,
for her re-vision
and to Joyce, Barb, Betty and Christina
for always reading and believing.

T
here was nothing Mitchell Baynes Rutherford III hated more than missed appointments. As he watched the ferry from Anacortes discharge the last of its cargo, he gritted his teeth and started to pace. A low-slung Corvette zoomed off, followed by a Winnebago the size of a Third World country. A station wagon crammed with squabbling kids and harried parents, followed by a convertible filled with college students. And then…nothing.

Not the person Mitch had been waiting for in the blistering August sun for the past hour. The so-called expert he had hired was nowhere to be found.

He stopped pacing, reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and grabbed his cell phone. Flipping it open, he speed-dialed his office in Seattle, wondering if the unreliable island signal would work this time.

“Rutherford Enterprises,” said a familiar voice.

“Miss Lovejoy, this Dr. Galvez person didn’t show.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Rutherford, and how are you today?” his secretary said pointedly.

He scowled, watching as a derelict Volkswagen bug, its exhaust pipe coughing up toxic smoke, limped off the ferry, the last of the last. Salsa music blared from the open windows of the little tangerine-colored car. Mitch covered one ear with his hand so he could continue his conversation.

“Sorry to be short with you,” he said, not sorry at all. “That marine biologist you sent didn’t show.”

“Oh, dear.” Miss Lovejoy sounded distressed, but Mitch knew her well. She was examining her manicure and looking out the window at the Seattle skyline. In front of her she probably held a voodoo doll in his shape, stuck with pins because he’d canceled her annual August vacation due to the current project. “I wonder what could have happened,” his secretary added innocently.

The Volkswagen lurched along the exit ramp, then sputtered and died just past the ticket kiosk maybe twenty feet in front of Mitch. The driver, in a floppy sun hat and rhinestone-studded shades, banged her fists on the steering wheel and let loose with an angry monologue in rapid-fire Spanish. A pair of skinny dogs, their eyes bulging, stuck their light-bulb-size heads out the window of the car and started yapping over the tinny shriek and dull thump of the music.

Mitch turned away, pressing his hand harder to his ear. “What’s that, Miss Lovejoy? I didn’t hear you. I might be losing the damned signal.”

“I said, ferry service is so unreliable in the summer. My son-in-law had a twelve-hour wait in Victoria—” The signal crackled, then died.

“Miss Lovejoy?” Mitch shouted into the phone.

But she was gone. Swearing, Mitch killed the power and flipped the phone shut. The woman with the Volkswagen had gotten out and lifted the rear hood, exposing a steaming and cantankerous engine. He took a perverse comfort in seeing someone whose troubles far surpassed his own. Sure, it was irritating that his newest hire had missed the ferry, but he should be getting used to it by now.

Island time, the syndrome was called. He hadn’t taken the expression seriously the first couple of days, but the concept was beginning to make a sort of annoying sense. People in the San Juans lived by their own inner clocks, not following any standard set by—God forbid—the business world. Workers came and went as they pleased, leaving a job half-finished if they got a better offer—like digging razor clams off Point No Point or climbing the Cattle Point lighthouse tower to watch a pod of whales swim by.

The tourists seemed to find the lackadaisical pace charming, but Mitch had a job to do and a limited time in which to do it. He had rented Rainshadow Lodge for the month of August. That meant he had just four weeks to get going on his latest project—planning a new forty-slip marina at the waterfront of Spruce Island.

Already the local planning inspector had stood him up. The marine architect had faxed some preliminary papers—and then everything had simply ground to a halt. The island sat like an emerald in the crystalline waters of a highly sensitive marine ecosystem. Before any work could be done, the entire area had to be evaluated to make sure the project wouldn’t affect the local wildlife.

Now, it seemed, the latest contractor had let him down, as well.

And the clock was ticking on a very expensive project.

Mitch was about to go back to his boat—a 45-foot Bayliner he’d chartered for the month—when he walked around the rear of the Volkswagen. Glancing at the stranded motorist, he did a double take.

She wore a short tight red dress that fit like a halter on top, tied behind her slim neck. The hemline fell short enough to be declared illegal in some places but not, luckily, in the anything-goes San Juans. High-heeled sandals enhanced the effect of long slender legs, their polished olive hue rich and gleaming in the sunlight. When she bent over to inspect the engine, the pose made his mouth go dry.

And he hadn’t even seen her face yet.

Who cares what her face looks like? his inner adolescent asked.

Apparently a few other inner adolescents had kicked in, too, because a handful of ferry workers started walking toward the damsel in the red dress. Propelled by a caveman territorial instinct, Mitch strode forward, reaching her first.

“Need some help, miss?” he asked.

“I guess I do,” she replied, one slim arm propping up the rear hood, red-painted fingernails drumming on the metal.

The yappers in the car trebled their barking frenzy as Mitch drew near.

“Freddy!” the woman said sharply. “Selena! Hush up!
Silencio!
”

Surprisingly the rodents complied, glaring at Mitch but no longer barking.

“So,” she said, pushing up the brim of her hat to reveal a face that more than did justice to the lush body. She took off her shades and folded them, tucking one earpiece down between the cleft of her breasts. With a frank sweep of her dark-eyed gaze, she studied him. She seemed faintly amused. Something in her expression made him wish his shirt wasn’t quite so crisply tailored, his trousers not quite so perfectly creased, his shoes not quite so gleamingly polished.

“You know how to fix cars?” she asked.

“I don’t know the first thing about fixing cars,” he admitted. “We should push it out of the ferry lane, though.”

She lowered the hood. “Good idea.” With a flash of her extravagantly gorgeous legs, she got in the driver’s side and, mercifully, flipped off the radio. “You push and I’ll steer.”

Great,
thought Mitch, taking off his suit coat and slinging it over the passenger-side window. The rug rats immediately set to sniffing it. Mitch didn’t let himself watch. If one of the Chihuahuas decided to mark its territory, he didn’t want to be a witness.

“Head for the lot over by the waterfront,” he said, gesturing.

She nodded, tossing the sun hat on the seat beside her. Mitch glanced over his shoulder at the ferry workers.
C’mon, guys,
he thought, but since he’d beaten them to the punch, they had clearly lost interest.

“Okay, I’m in neutral,” she called out the window.

Nice accent, he thought. Barely noticeable, just in the
r
’s and a few elongated vowels. Setting his palms flat against the sun-heated back of the car, he pushed, feeling the resistance lessen as the small battered Volkswagen started to roll. A moment later she’d managed to maneuver it into a parking space at the waterfront lot.

“Stay, guys,” she instructed the dogs, then got out and came around the back of the car, nodding at Mitch. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He tried not to stare, but she was gorgeous. Full red lips, hair dark and silky, eyes even darker and the lashes silkier. A single teardrop of sweat trickled down between her breasts. A tiny gold cross on a dainty chain lay against her smooth skin. He nearly groaned aloud. “Um, is there someone you could call? Do you belong to an auto club?”

She laughed, a bright staccato sound. “This car’s older than I am. I always figured if it broke down, I’d just walk away.”

He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “Well, is there someone you could call?”

“Yeah, I’d better. I’m late for an appointment.” She turned and scanned the ferry landing just as the boat blasted its horn and pulled away from the dock. She bit her lower lip. Mitch’s inner adolescent came to full alert. “Someone was supposed to meet me, but I don’t see him.”

He yanked his gaze from her berry-bright mouth and forced his brain to kick in. “Whoa. You can’t be Dr. Galvez.”

Her face lit with a grin as generous and bright as the summer sun. Mitch didn’t know many women who smiled so quickly and openly.

She stuck out her hand. “Dr. Rosalinda Galvez. My friends call me Rosie. You must be Mr. Rutherford.”

“Mitch,” he said quickly, his mind trying to reorganize all his expectations. The fax from Miss Lovejoy had said only that he was to meet “R. Galvez, Ph.D.” who would arrive on the afternoon ferry from Anacortes. Based on that, his unimaginative mind had pictured a professorial type. Middle-aged. Male. Probably balding and maybe a little paunchy around the middle. Thick-lensed eyeglasses, because all that peering into microscopes had affected his eyesight.

“Mr. Rutherford,” she said. “Mitch. Is something wrong?”

“Me,” he blurted.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Never mind.”

She reached into the car, randomly picking up one of the Chihuahuas and stroking it absently. The dog nuzzled against her midsection. “I’m not following you.”

He tried his best not to be jealous of a rat. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Oh.” She did that lip-biting thing again; it was making him nuts. Her knowing gaze took in his custom-made shirt, Armani slacks, tasseled Italian loafers. “
You
are.”

He spread his arms, feeling the sweat run. “I dressed for a business meeting. Old habits die hard.”

“So I guess I should get my things, right?” she asked, tilting her head to one side. “I mean, your assistant said we’d be going to Spruce Island by private boat.”

“That’s right.” He pointed out the Bayliner. “It’s in a slip down there. I’ll go get a handcart.”

“Great.”

“You need a parking tag from the attendant,” he suggested. “Long-term.”

She flashed her amazing smile again. “I like the sound of that.”

“It’s only a month.”

She rolled her eyes. “The way my life has been going, a month is forever.”

“I guess that means you haven’t changed your mind.”

She laughed easily and put the dog back in the car. “No chance of that, Mr.—Mitch.”

A few minutes later he was still trying to get his bearings. His marine biologist was Carmen Miranda. She drove a Volkswagen bug older than she was, complete with plastic Virgin on the dashboard and fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. She had Chihuahuas named after deceased Latino singers and a smile he could live on for weeks. He couldn’t decide whether this was a stroke of good luck or a joke played by fate.

He watched her open the front trunk of the car, noting the lyrical movement of long sleek muscles as she moved, and decided he could put up with the Chihuahuas.

“Here’s all my stuff,” she said.

He brought the handcart near. A medium-size suitcase, a case of Gainsburger and a large box of technical-looking apparatus lay in the trunk. “You travel pretty light,” he commented.

“I had another big suitcase,” she said a little wistfully, “but…” She let her voice trail off.

“But what?”

“I left it with a woman at the ferry terminal in Anacortes.”

Mitch frowned, tossing the dog food into the cart. “Why’d you do that?”

“She needs the stuff more than I do.”

He blinked. Homeless people were so sadly common these days that they’d become invisible to most passersby. It was unusual to find someone who actually did something about it. “That was pretty nice of you,” he said.

“I didn’t do it to be nice. I did it because she needed some things.” She banged the trunk shut. “Freddy, Selena, c’mon.” They scooted out the driver’s-side door. She retrieved her hat and a box of cassette tapes and CDs, then took out a small cooler of water. “For the dogs,” she explained. Lastly she drew out a big, bulging file box.

“And that?” Mitch asked, taking it from her.

“All my personal papers.” Her gaze skated away from him. “I, um, gave up my apartment.”

“This job isn’t permanent,” he reminded her.

She winked. “Like I said before, a month is forever.”

Mitch helped her roll up the car windows. “That everything?”

“I guess so,” she said, dropping a set of keys into an oversize tote bag with a faded chemical-company logo on it.

“Aren’t you going to lock the car?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Hey, if somebody can find something worth stealing in this heap, more power to him. The speakers have been blown for years.”

What a strange woman, Mitch thought as he wheeled the handcart down to the boat. Possessions didn’t seem to mean a thing to her.

He held open the gate leading to the boat slips. “Ladies first,” he said.

She treated him to that dazzling smile he was already half in love with and preceded him down the ramp, the dogs skittering and dancing with joy at her feet.

God, Mitch thought before he could stop himself, what did those legs look like from the Chihuahuas’ perspective?