Читать книгу A Bungalow For Two - Carole Page Gift - Страница 10

For two days, Frannie put off phoning the rental number to inquire about the beach house. She vacillated between excitement at the prospect of moving into a place of her own and horror at the thought of leaving her father and the home she had lived in all her life. Wouldn’t moving out show that she had truly given up on salvaging her family? Or was God trying to tell her something, nudging her to take responsibility for her own life and future?

On the third day, Frannie gathered her courage and dialed the number. She learned the house was still available and the rent was less than she might have expected for beachfront property, even though the house was a bit dilapidated. “I’ll take it,” she heard herself saying. Her heart began to pound with anticipation and a pinch of anxiety.

What am I doing? she asked herself the next day as she drove to the beach house to meet the real estate agent for an official walk-through. “What could I have been thinking?” she wondered aloud an hour later as she returned home with a signed rental agreement and a set of keys.

That evening she cornered her father in his study and told him the news. By the stunned look on his face, she might as well have told him she was taking the next shuttle into space.

“Aren’t you happy here, sugar plum?” he asked blankly.

She fought the tears gathering in her eyes. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—lose control. All she could manage to blurt out was “You have Juliana now, and you like her spaghetti better than mine!”

He got up from his desk, came around and drew her into his arms. “Spaghetti? This is about spaghetti?”

“No, Daddy. It’s just…you don’t need me anymore. You have a new family.”

He caressed her hair. “I’ll always need you, baby cakes. You know that. I need you to be my loving daughter, but not my cook, housekeeper and caretaker. I let you fill those roles much too long.” He kissed her forehead. “And who says I like Juliana’s spaghetti better than yours? Nothing can top yours.”

Frannie sniffled like a sulking child. “You’re not just saying that?”

Her father grinned broadly. “Are you kidding? I’m a minister of the Gospel. I’m committed to telling the truth, and only the truth. And the truth is, I saw this coming. I understand why you’d want a place of your own. But I’ll miss you like crazy, pumpkin. And no matter where you go or what you do, nobody can take your place in my heart.”

She smiled through her tears. “Then I have your blessing?”

“My blessing, my love and my prayers. I just ask you to make sure this is what you really want. And promise me, anytime you decide this isn’t for you, you’ll come home.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll come home to visit. I’ll be here so often, you’ll get sick of me.”

“Never in a million years.” Her father kissed her forehead, then clasped her face in his large hands. “This beach house—is it safe? In a good area?”

“Of course, Daddy. It’s perfect.”

“Well, I have an idea. Why don’t you take Ruggs with you? I’d feel better knowing he’s there to protect you.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

Her father winked. “Juliana’s not too fond of the old boy anyway. You take him.”

Frannie threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Thank you, Daddy! Thank you!”

She turned to leave, but he caught her hand. “You know, there’s someone else who’s going to miss you. Now Belina won’t have anyone in the house her age to hang out with.”

Frannie rolled her eyes. Was it possible her father really didn’t have a clue about Belina? “Daddy, she’ll be very happy to have me out of here. You just wait and see.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute. I think she’d like the two of you to be friends.”

“Then she can come visit me at my beach house.” Fat chance that would ever happen!

Her father seemed to think that was a good idea. “I’ll tell her that. She used to live on the beach. I bet she misses it.”

“Whatever,” Frannie mumbled. Spooky Belina was the last person she wanted hanging out at her new place, but she couldn’t tell her father that.

The next afternoon, after lunch, her father helped her carry her things out to the car. She wasn’t taking much—some clothes, toiletries, her Bible, CD player, boombox and enough dishes, pots and pans and utensils to accommodate one person. On the weekend her father and Juliana’s son, Antonio, would rent a truck and bring out all her art supplies and equipment from the sunroom.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you today?” her father asked as she coaxed Ruggs into the passenger seat. “I could help you settle in. The place might need some work. I could get my toolbox and—”

“No, Daddy, you stay here. I’m fine. I’ve got to do this myself. I’m grown up, Dad. I’m not Daddy’s little girl anymore.” She didn’t add that she feared her father would have a fit if he saw how desolate and in disrepair the beach house was. She could hear him now. I won’t have my daughter living in a hovel like this! And look how isolated you are! It’s not safe. What if someone breaks in—?

No, she didn’t want him seeing her new home until she’d had a chance to settle in and spruce it up a bit. Once she had all her things in place, her father would be reluctant to insist she move out and come home.

It was late afternoon before Frannie pulled her vehicle into the small, rutted driveway beside her new home. Her heart was pounding with excitement as she slipped out of her car, let Ruggs out and walked across the beach to the modest dwelling. “Well, here we are, Ruggsy. Home at last!” She stuck the key in the lock and turned it, then gingerly opened the door. It creaked on its hinges. She made a mental note: Oil the hinges. She stepped inside and gazed around at her very own domicile.

The thought came to her: Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home. Her gaze flitted over the hardwood floor, the paneled walls, braided throw rugs, pine tables with hurricane lamps and several pieces of overstuffed furniture, worn and sagging, but adequate. Besides the small bedroom and bath down the narrow hallway, the house consisted of one large room, with a breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living area and a rustic stone fireplace taking up most of one wall.

Frannie sank down on the lumpy couch and bounced gently, testing the springs. “Well, they’re right about the humble part. It’s not Beverly Hills. But we’ll get along just fine, won’t we, Ruggsy?”

Ruggs loped around the room, sniffing every corner, then settled on the braided rug at Frannie’s feet. She reached down and massaged his floppy ears. “We can’t sit around loafing all day, Ruggs. We’ve got work to do.” She riffled through her purse and found her cell phone. “I’d better call the phone company and see when they can start service. Can’t depend on my cell phone forever.” She punched in the numbers and waited, then tossed the phone back in her purse. “Might know. In all my excitement, I forgot to charge the battery last night. We’re off to a good start, aren’t we!”

She got up and went to her kitchenette and turned on the spigot. The pipes groaned and clattered. Rusty water finally sputtered from the faucet. “Doesn’t look like this place has been occupied in ages.” She opened the cupboards. They would need to be washed out and lined before she stocked them. “Looks like I’d better bring in my stuff and find the detergent.”

It took several trips to unload her car. She couldn’t believe she had packed so much. And wait till her father came with the rest of her stuff on Saturday! Now that she had boxes, sacks and suitcases everywhere, the place looked smaller than ever. And a bit grungy, if she was honest about it. No second thoughts! she warned herself. You wanted a place of your own, and now you’ve got it. Make the best of it!

For the next hour she scrubbed the kitchen cupboards. While they weren’t exactly gleaming, they finally looked tolerable.

“I’m done! They’ll have to do.” Wiping her chapped hands on a paper towel, she looked over at Ruggs, ensconced by the stone fireplace. “Guess I’d better make a trip to the grocery store, or we’ll be having stale granola bars and rusty water for dinner. You stay here, boy, and keep an eye on the place, and I’ll bring you back your favorite doggie treats.”

Ruggs barked and wagged his tail.

Frannie grabbed up her purse, checked for her keys and retraced her steps across the sandy yard to her car. The air had cooled perceptibly and clouds were gathering on the horizon. “You might know,” she mumbled as she pulled out onto the street. “My first day in my new house and it looks like rain. It hardly ever rains in Southern California in July! Hope I’m not stuck with a leaky roof.”

The closest grocery store was a small market several miles away. Hope I don’t see anybody I know, she thought as she entered the store. She was wearing formfitting jeans and a white blouse tied at her waist, and her long blond hair looked unattended and flyaway in the rising breeze. Seeing that the store was nearly empty, she gave a little sigh of relief. Thank goodness, she wouldn’t be encountering any prospective dates in a place like this.

She bought just enough staples to tide her over for the next few days—two paper sacks filled with milk, butter, bread, eggs, oatmeal, ground beef, salad fixings and a healthy selection of fresh fruits and vegetables. She remembered Ruggs’s dog food and treats and even snuck in a bag of chips and munchies for herself, plus a six-pack of diet cola. At the checkout counter, she added a local newspaper, a nice way to keep in touch with the world, since she had decided not to bring a television set.

By the time she returned to the beach house, the clouds had swollen to a threatening black and the wind was rattling the shutters, as if demanding entrance. Balancing her two bags of groceries, Frannie got inside just as the wind banged the door shut behind her.

“Wow! Looks like we’re in for quite a storm.”

Ruggs gazed up at her and cocked his head in agreement. She gave him a treat, then put the groceries away. She hadn’t noticed before how old and small the refrigerator was. She hoped it worked. Why hadn’t she been more careful to check things when she’d had her walk-through?

A sudden pelting rain slammed against the roof and rattled the windows. She looked outside and groaned. It was a downpour. The thought occurred to her to go back home just for tonight to get out of this storm. She immediately dismissed the idea. How would it look for her to go hightailing it home her very first day?

She shivered and realized she had no idea how to heat the place. She scrutinized the fireplace. Sure, why not? This was her home now. If she wanted to have a little fire in her own fireplace, who was to stop her? She stooped down beside the hearth and moved the grate aside. To her surprise, it already held several charred logs. Now if she could just find the matches she had packed in one of the boxes.

By the time she located the matches, it was dark outside and the rain was coming down harder than ever. A bone-chilling dampness seeped through the walls, one of the disadvantages of living in a bungalow perched on the edge of the ocean.

Frannie bent over the fireplace and made sure the flue was open, then took the classified section from the paper, lit it and coaxed the flames until they ignited the blackened wood. After several minutes she had a roaring fire. Frannie stepped back and folded her arms in satisfaction. See, she was a smart, capable, independent woman. She could manage without her father’s help!

Feeling a hunger pang or two, she returned to the kitchen and browsed through her groceries. Time for dinner. Maybe she would fix a salad, some broccoli and a hamburger. Not a feast exactly, but certainly adequate.

As she broke open a head of lettuce, she smelled something burning. How could that be? She hadn’t turned on the gas range. A crackling noise broke into the distant drumming of the rainfall. Ruggs barked. Frannie spun around and gazed across the room, the lettuce dropping from her fingers. Heavy, black smoke was billowing out of the fireplace and filling the house.

Frannie ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker. If she could only smother the flames! But her awkward attempts were useless. The flames were too intense and the smoke too thick. Her eyes started smarting, her throat went dry and she began to cough. She couldn’t see. The acrid fumes were already stealing her breath. She dashed to the bedroom for her cell phone, then remembered that the battery was dead. She ran back to the living room and stared helplessly at the rolling smoke blanketing the room.

With her heart pounding in her throat, she grabbed Ruggs by the collar. “Come on, boy! Gotta find a phone and call the fire department!”

The moment she and Ruggs stepped out on the porch, she knew her trouble had only begun. The rain was coming down in a blinding deluge. There was no way she could drive.

“Dear God, help us!” She looked around, the rain streaming down her face and soaking her clothes. The world was a mass of liquid shadows and elusive shapes. Then, through the leaden gloom she saw a light flickering in the distance. It was the cottage down the beach. Someone was home!

“Come on, Ruggs!” Frannie broke into a run, her sneakers filling with water, her wet clothes sticking to her skin. She was drenched and out of breath by the time she reached the bungalow. She scaled the porch steps and pounded on the door until her palms ached. It seemed like an eternity before the latch clicked and the door creaked open.

Frannie caught a glimpse of a towering silhouette in the doorway, etched against the rosy glow of lamplight inside.

“I need a phone,” she blurted.

“Don’t have one.”

“Please! My house is on fire!”

The man stepped outside. He was tall and brawny, his face obscured by shadows. “Where?”

She pointed down the beach. “There! The next cabin!”

The man pushed past her and broke into a sprint. She nudged Ruggs and ran after him, her legs suddenly feeling like overcooked spaghetti. She slipped in a puddle and nearly went down. Somehow she caught herself and slogged on through the relentless torrents. She arrived at the beach house just as the man disappeared inside. She clambered onto the porch and pushed open the door. Smoke rolled over her.

Inside, the man’s deep, rasping voice bellowed, “Get out!”

She backed away, letting the door bang shut, and waited, holding Ruggs by the collar as the rain pelted them mercilessly. What if the stranger died trying to salvage her cabin? He could be asphyxiated by the fumes. How long did she dare wait before entering the house again?

Her questions were answered moments later, when the man burst out the door, his brawny chest heaving as he sucked for air. He was covered with soot, the stench of charred kindling so pungent on his body that Frannie turned her face away.

He took her arm and urged her away from the cabin. “Come on!”

She dug in her heels. “No—my house!”

“It’s okay. I smothered the fire. Nothing’s burning!”

“But I can’t just leave it.”

He stared down at her, impatience etched in his blackened face. “You can’t stay, lady. It’s toxic in there. We’ll air it out tomorrow.”

He took her hand and pulled her after him as if she were an obstreperous child. “Let’s go!”

She stumbled after him. “Where?”

“My place, unless you’ve got a better idea.”

She followed numbly, Ruggs galumphing after them through the downpour. By the time they reached the man’s bungalow, Frannie’s teeth were chattering. He opened the door and stepped aside. She hesitated only a moment as she recalled from childhood her mother’s repeated admonition Never go in the house of strangers. This time there seemed no other choice. Besides, she had Ruggs. He would protect her, unless the man made him stay outside.

She sighed with relief when he held the door for Ruggs, too. After Ruggs bounded inside and shook himself like an oversize mop, spraying water everywhere, the man came in and shut the door behind him. He broke into a spasm of coughing.

She looked at him with concern. “The fumes got to you.”

He wiped his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m okay.” He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and coughed into it.

Frannie politely looked away. Folding her arms to keep from shivering, she gazed around the cottage and realized how good it felt to be inside a nice, warm house. The furnishings were as spartan as those in her cabin—masculine pine furniture, worn overstuffed couch and chair, hurricane lamps, braided rugs and a red brick fireplace with a crackling fire. The cottage was nothing fancy, but at the moment it seemed immensely inviting.

The man touched her arm, and she jumped. “You’d better get out of those clothes, miss.”

She shrank back, her heart pounding. What if this stranger was a homicidal maniac? He was well over six feet tall and close to two hundred pounds. She’d be helpless to fight him off.

“I’m f-fine,” she stammered.

“No, you’re not. You’ll freeze in those wet clothes.”

She slipped over by the fire and held out her hands. “I’ll just warm up a minute and then be on my way.”

The man guffawed. “Really? You’ll be on your way…where?”

“Home.” They were both in this miserable predicament, and he was laughing at her! “I’ll dry off, then go back to my house. The smoke should be tolerable by then.”

Even with his face smudged with soot and his eyes tearing, the man managed a twinkle of amusement. “You’re not getting rid of that smoke until you open all the doors and windows and air the place out in the heat of day.”

Frannie’s ire rose. She didn’t want anyone telling her something that she wasn’t ready to accept—the fact that she was stuck in a strange house with a strange man for the duration of a bleak, rainy night. “I won’t be here long,” she insisted. “Once I’ve dried off, I’ll go get my car and drive to my father’s house.”

“You’d have to be a fool to drive in this deluge.”

“Well, I certainly can’t stay here all night.”

“Have it your way.” He pulled his wet T-shirt over his head.

Frannie gasped. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to go take a shower and see if I can scrub off some of this grime. And make the fire stop burning in my eyes.”

As he rolled his blackened shirt in a ball, Frannie couldn’t help noticing that he had the muscular build of a football player or weight lifter. He started down the hallway, then paused and looked back at her. “Listen, I’ve got some clothes you can change into, or a blanket—”

“No, I’m o-okay.”

“That’s why your teeth are chattering so hard you can’t talk?”

He was right. She was freezing inside and out. If she didn’t get out of these wet clothes, she’d catch her death of cold. “Maybe…maybe I will change.”

He grinned, showing white, even teeth in his smudged face. “Fine. I’ll lay some things out in the bedroom and you can change in there. There’s a lock on the door, if you’re worried. I’ll be in the bathroom showering.”

It sounded reasonable enough. Maybe the guy was harmless. She nodded. “I’d appreciate some warm clothes.”

He disappeared down the hall, then returned a minute later and led her to the bedroom. “My things are way too big for you. But I found a flannel shirt and some sweats with a drawstring, so they should stay up okay. If you’re still cold, you can wrap yourself in a blanket. Just take one off the bed.”

“Thank you.” She was still hugging herself, shivering. As soon as he stepped out of the room, she shut the door and bolted the lock. After removing her soggy sneakers, she quickly peeled off her soaked jeans and blouse and hung them over the metal bedpost. Her underwear was damp, but she wasn’t about to part with it. She pulled on the long-sleeve shirt and baggy sweats and pulled the strings until they were cinched around her narrow waist.

For the first time she glanced at herself in the bureau mirror and shuddered. Who was this straggly, ragamuffin waif looking back at her with smeared makeup and disheveled hair? She looked like something out of a fright movie. Oh, well, the last thing on her mind was impressing anybody, especially her churlish stranger.

Gingerly she unlocked the door and peered down the hall. No one in sight. She heard the shower running in the bathroom. And—was it possible?—a deep voice was crooning a country-western song. The nerve of that man, to be singing so nonchalantly when they were in such a dire predicament!

She pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders and tiptoed down the hall past the bathroom. When she heard the shower go off, she scurried on to the living room and curled up on the couch before the fireplace—a little bug in a rug, as her mom used to say.

The man’s voice sounded from the hallway. “You through in the bedroom, miss?”

“Yes, it’s all yours,” she called back, quelling a fresh spurt of anxiety. Now what? Was she actually going to spend an entire night in this house? Was she safe?

After a few minutes, the man came striding into the living room in a fresh T-shirt and jeans. He was toweling his dark, curly hair. His eyes were still tearing. But without all the soot and grime, he looked uncommonly handsome. His strong classic features were as finely chiseled as a Michelangelo sculpture—a perfectly straight nose, high forehead and sharply honed cheekbones, a wide jaw and a full, generous mouth. Arched brows shaded intense brown eyes and the stubble of a beard shadowed his chin.

Frannie realized she was staring.

He tossed his towel over a chair and eyed her suspiciously. “Is there a problem, lady?”

Frannie felt her face grow warm. “No, I’m sorry. I was concerned about your eyes. I hope the smoke didn’t hurt them.”

“They smart a little, but they’ll be okay.” He sat down in the overstuffed chair and raked his damp hair back from his forehead. “What I want to know is how you got all that smoke backed up in your house like that.”

Frannie tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “I just started a fire, that’s all. How did I know it was going to back up into the house?” She tossed him a defensive glance. “I checked the flue, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He sat forward and held his hands out to the lapping flames. “But did you check the chimney to make sure some bird hadn’t built a nest in it? Or the winds hadn’t stuffed it with debris? No telling how long it’s been since someone built a fire in that place.”

Frannie shook her head. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Next time, get yourself a chimney sweep before you go starting a fire.”

She bristled. “I will. First thing tomorrow. Or…whenever the rain stops.”

He coughed again, a dry, hacking sound that shook his hefty frame.

“You inhaled too much smoke. Maybe you should see a doctor.”

He laughed, and coughed again. “No way to see a doctor tonight. Maybe I’ll fix a little tea and lemon. Want some?”

She shivered in spite of the dry clothes and heavy blanket. “Yes, some hot tea would be wonderful.”

He stood and gazed down at her. “Listen, neighbor, if we’re going to spend the night together, there’s something you need to know.”

She gazed up at him with a start, her backbone tensing. The rain was still hammering the roof, its relentless rat-a-tat echoing the fierce pounding of her heart. “Something I should know? What’s that?”

He held out his hand. “My name. I’m Scott. Scott Winslow. What’s yours?”

She relaxed a little and allowed a flicker of a smile to cross her lips. “I—I’m Frannie. Frannie Rowlands.” She slipped her hand out of the blanket and allowed his large, rough hand to close around it.

He matched her smile. “Well, Frannie, it’s going to be a long night. We might as well make the best of it.”