Читать книгу A Bungalow For Two - Carole Page Gift - Страница 11

Frannie was on her guard again. She tightened her grip on the blanket wrapped around her, then glanced over at Ruggs curled contentedly beside the fireplace. If Scott Winslow tried anything suspicious, surely Ruggs would come to her defense. Wouldn’t he? Or would he just roll over and go to sleep and leave her to fend for herself?

“Sugar and cream?”

“What?”

“Your tea. Do you want it plain? With lemon? Or with sugar and cream?” A faint smile played on the man’s lips, but his eyes held a hint of something darker. Was it despair, nostalgia, remorse? “My mother was an Englishwoman. She always had a spot of cream in her tea.”

“Plain is fine for me. Just as long as it’s hot.”

While he fixed the tea, Frannie gazed around the room, assessing what sort of man she was keeping company with tonight. Please, dear Lord, don’t let him be an ax murderer! There wasn’t much to go on—a few books on a table, a radio on the counter. But no television, stereo or telephone. Nor were there any newspapers, magazines, knickknacks or family portraits in sight. And not even a calendar or a cheap print on the wall.

Who is this man? Frannie wondered. He’s anonymous. There’s nothing in this room that tells me who he is. Except perhaps his books.

She reached out from her blanket for the nearest book and turned it over in her hands. It looked like a library book, some sort of historical treatise. Did the man possess nothing of his own? As she put it back, she noticed an open Bible lying among the history books, philosophy tomes and suspense novels.

A man who reads the Bible can’t be all bad, she mused.

As Scott served the tea, she let the blanket fall away from her shoulders and accepted the steaming mug. With the tea warming her insides, her flannel shirt and sweats should be enough to keep her toasty. She put the mug to her lips and sipped gingerly, then nodded toward the stack of books. “You must like to read.”

He settled back in his overstuffed chair and took a swallow of the hot liquid. “Yes, I do. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”

“Mine, too. When I have time.”

He flashed an oblique smile. “I always have time.”

“You’re lucky. I’m always juggling a busy schedule.”

“And mine is wide open these days.”

She ventured another observation. “I see you have a Bible.”

He nodded. “It was my mother’s.”

“Was?”

“Yes.” He paused, as if deliberating whether to go on. Finally he said in a low, abrupt voice, “She—she died.”

Frannie felt a jolt of emotions—sympathy, empathy, compassion and her own lingering pain. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s been a while.”

“How long?”

“Well over six months.”

Frannie turned the warm mug in her palms. “My mother died seven years ago, and I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

Scott looked away, but not before Frannie saw tears glistening in his eyes. His voice rumbled. “Seven years? Then it sounds like I’ve got a long way to go.”

Frannie searched for words. “Scott, I hope your mother’s Bible has been a comfort for you.”

“I’m trying to find in it what she found.”

“I’m sure she’d be pleased that you kept it.”

His eyes darkened. “It’s the least I could do.” He leaned forward and set his mug on the table, then folded his hands under his chin. His brows furrowed and the lines around his mouth deepened as he gazed at the flames. He was a young man, surely no more than thirty, but the heaviness in his expression made him look old beyond his years.

Frannie had the feeling he was debating whether or not to say more, perhaps even to open up to her about his feelings. She took the initiative. “Losing someone you love… There are no words for it. But it does help to talk about it, even when you don’t know what to say.”

His voice was noncommittal. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And sometimes talking to a stranger is easier than baring your soul to your loved ones.”

He nodded. “Ironic, but true.”

“When my mother died, I didn’t talk about my feelings for a long time. I was afraid my father and sisters would feel worse if they knew how much I was hurting.”

Scott gave her a probing, incisive glance. “Then how did you cope?”

She gazed at the flickering fire for several moments. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure what coping means. I just tried to make it through each day. I prayed a lot. Cried a lot. Ranted a little.” She held up the thumb-worn Bible. “And I looked for answers in this book.”

His lips tightened in a small, ironic smile. “So we have something in common. Two motherless orphans with a penchant for the Holy Scriptures. Extraordinary.”

“Not really. I’ve read the Bible all my life. You might say I was spoon-fed from the cradle.”

“How so?”

“My father’s a minister.”

He looked at her curiously, one brow arching. “Is that so? What’s it like?”

“Being a minister’s daughter?” She chuckled. “Don’t get me going on that subject.”

“Why not? The rain’s not letting up. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Frannie shivered and pulled the blanket back up around her shoulders. He was right. The uncertainty of her situation struck her afresh. She didn’t know the first thing about this man. She might have stepped heedlessly into her worst nightmare. She would have to endure an entire night to find out. She drummed her fingers on the mug. “I really need to let my father know where I am. He’s such a worrywart. He might even come looking for me.”

“He’d be crazy to go out in this weather.”

It was true. Her father wouldn’t be looking for her. He had no idea she even needed him. Frannie sipped her tea. It was lukewarm now. She glanced at her watch. She had been here for nearly two hours. She was cold and exhausted. All she wanted was to be back in her father’s house, in her own bed, safe and sound.

But there was something in the remote, melancholy face of the man sitting in the chair beside her that touched her and piqued her curiosity. Staring morosely into the fire, he looked like the loneliest man in the world. Or maybe that’s the way he wanted it… To be alone. He hadn’t anticipated that he would have to rescue a damsel in distress and take her back to his cottage for the night.

Frannie shifted uneasily on the couch. She drew her legs up under her and tucked the blanket around her knees. Rain still pelted the roof and windows like an invisible intruder, demanding admittance. She cleared her throat and waited to see if her moody companion would break the silence. The rosy glow from the flames danced on his stalwart features, but he remained tight-lipped, stony-faced.

Finally she spoke his name, startling him out of his reverie. “Mr. Winslow?”

He stared at her as if he had forgotten she was there. “Did you say something?”

“Just your name.”

“I’m sorry. My mind wandered. I guess I’m guilty of that a lot these days.”

“No problem. It took me a year after my mother died before I could concentrate on anything again. People talked to me and I never heard a word. I’d try to work and end up staring at a shapeless mound of clay all day.”

Bewilderment flickered in his eyes. “You stared at a mound of clay? I’ve heard of many ways to express grief, but that’s a new one on me.”

Frannie broke into laughter. Scott joined her with a polite, baffled chuckle, but she knew he had no idea what was so funny. She covered her mouth to stifle herself. “I’m sorry. There’s no way you could know. I’m a sculptor. The clay had nothing to do with grieving. It’s my job. What I do.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Now I get it. I’m impressed. I’ve never met a sculptor before.”

She smiled. “Most people look at me with suspicion or pity. They figure I’m in my second childhood or never got out of my first. They can’t imagine a grown woman mucking around in clay all day.”

“Good training for a muddy night like this.”

“I suppose so.”

“And you’re doing what you love best.”

She arched her brows, wide-eyed. “How do you know that?”

He grinned. “I see it in your face. Hear it in your voice. You’re obviously passionate about your work.”

“I didn’t realize it showed.”

“Like neon lights.”

She felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with the fire. “So what do you do?”

He didn’t answer for a full minute. She was about to repeat the question in case he had reverted back into his reverie. But finally he spoke. “What do I do? I walk. I run. I collect driftwood on the beach. I read. I think. Sometimes I even try to pray.”

“Sounds like a very peaceful life. But I meant, what kind of work do you do?”

“I just told you.”

She laughed lightly. “You know what I mean. I assume you have a job to go to. You’re too young to be retired. Oh, I know. You’re on vacation. Renting this cabin for the summer.”

He shook his head, his expression clouding, as if he were deliberately stepping back behind a veil. “This isn’t a summer cottage. It’s my permanent home.”

Frannie ran her fingertips over the scratchy blanket that enveloped her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound nosy. It’s none of my business what line of work you’re in.”

Scott got up and stoked the fire, then sat back down. “I’m not trying to be evasive, Miss Rowlands. The truth is, this is what I do. This is it. I live in this cottage. Sometimes I collect and sell firewood.”

Disappointment scissored through Frannie. She had imagined that her handsome rescuer might be a doctor, lawyer or business tycoon. Surely anything but a common beach bum.

“When I’m in the mood, I build furniture out of driftwood, but it’s not a profitable occupation. It takes me too long to create each piece, and no one’s willing to meet my price.”

“I know the feeling,” Frannie conceded. “Sculpting is like that at times. It’s feast or famine. When I have a commission I’m on easy street. When I don’t, I’m on a penny-pincher’s budget. It was never a problem when I lived at home, but now that I’m on my own…”

“It can be a challenge,” he agreed. “But I always have a few dollars in my pocket. Enough to get by.”

“Did you ever think of, um, you know, going out and—”

“Getting a real job?”

“Something like that.”

Scott’s voice took on an oddly menacing tone, as if he were lashing out at some invisible adversary. “The corporate world is filled with potholes and booby traps. I’ve seen men swallowed whole by the duplicity and hypocrisy. I’ve seen them sell their souls and the souls of their families for just a little more power and wealth. It’s a deadly, diabolic life. I want no part of it.”

There was only the sound of the thundering downpour until Frannie found her voice. “It doesn’t have to be that way, Mr. Winslow. I’ve known some very honorable businessmen. Men who are honest and generous and—”

He stood abruptly. “It’s late, Miss Rowlands.” He took a step toward her, his towering frame silhouetted against the firelight. “I imagine you’d like to get some sleep.”

A knot of apprehension tightened in Frannie’s chest as he loomed over her. “Sleep? I—I hadn’t thought about it.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

She shrank back against the couch, her fingers clutching the blanket around her shoulders. What would she do if this strange, agitated man attacked her? Ruggs, asleep by the fire, couldn’t save her. And there wasn’t another living soul in shouting distance. She might be able to grab the poker, knock him out and run. But where would she go in this deluge? And surely with his strength, he could wrestle the poker from her grip and use it on her.

Her fear crescendoed as he held out his hand and said in a tone both forceful and compelling, “Come, Miss Rowlands. Don’t be afraid. You know where the bedroom is.”