Читать книгу The Women of Bayberry Cove - Cynthia Thomason, Cynthia Thomason - Страница 9

HE STOOD THERE gawking at her as if she’d descended out of the sky. “Wow, look at you,” he finally said. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t see you out here.”

She glanced down at her pants again. “That’s comforting. It’s nice to know you weren’t lying in wait….”

He disappeared into the house. Gone.

She leaned across the open doorway. “Hey!”

He came back with a roll of slightly soggy paper towels. “Here. Dry yourself.”

She unwound about a dozen squares and began patting her clothes. When she swiped along her arms, she jerked her face away. “This stuff stinks. What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s been in the pipes for something like five, six years. I can’t remember when somebody last stayed here.” He ran a sympathetic look down her legs. “I’d say it contains a good bit of rust, though.”

She scowled at him. “Obviously you’re a chemistry wiz.”

He almost smiled. “Hardly. Unfortunately, I’m not much of a plumber, either. The pipes under the kitchen sink are winning this battle.”

“Look, while you’re joking about skirmishes with copper pipes, I’m fighting real germ warfare. Do you think I could come in and use the universal antidote to all this grime?”

“What’s that?”

“Soap, Mr. Chemist. Plain old bacteria-eating soap. There is soap in this place, right?”

He moved aside. “Oh, sure. Plenty of soap.”

She stepped through the door while digging her car keys out of her pocket. Her first look at the interior of the small kitchen confirmed the plumber’s story. Sections of old pipe and numerous tools stood in puddles of murky water on the floor in front of an open cabinet, along with various lengths of shiny new PVC tubes waiting to replace their worn-out predecessors.

Louise picked her way across the disaster area and turned around. “Can you do me a favor? My car’s out front. Would you bring in the smaller of the two suitcases from the trunk?”

“Bring in a suitcase?”

She almost laughed at the expression on his face. “Don’t panic. I won’t disturb your work. I’m not moving in this minute. I haven’t even signed a lease yet. But I do need to change clothes.” She tossed the keys, and he snatched them in midair. “Good reflexes, chemist. I’ll be in the bathroom.”

WESLEY FLETCHER DIDN’T like chaos in his life. He’d spent years eliminating as much of it as possible from his daily routines. He started every day with the same rituals. He ate his meals at the same times. He hardly ever watched a new show on television, preferring a select number of tried and true ones.

That’s why he was determined to fix the pipes in Buttercup Cottage before it was time to prepare dinner. He glanced at his watch as he walked around the side of the house. He had only two hours left to accomplish the task, or after eating his thick, juicy T-bone, he’d be cleaning the broiler in the bathroom sink. This day would have gone so much better if the one plumber in Bayberry Cove hadn’t told him it would be forty-eight hours before he could make a house call.

And now Wesley was carting a suitcase weighing at least twenty pounds back to his home, where a half-crazy lady was occupying his bathroom and making claims about moving in. That was chaos of a sort that could turn his already cockeyed day upside down.

It wasn’t that he didn’t owe her a favor. He did. Nearly drowning her in liquid muck was a pretty nasty thing to do to a woman. A woman whose clothes and demeanor indicated she was not from around here. And that was the biggest mystery of all. Who was she and where had she come from?

He entered the house and set the suitcase by the bathroom door. Tapping lightly to get her attention, he realized he didn’t even know her name. “Ma’am?”

She opened the door about ten inches and, now hatless, presented him a view of a face that could rival any movie star’s. “Call me ma’am one more time, chemist, and I may have to slug you. The name’s Louise.”

Through the opening he saw her reflection in the small mirror over the bathroom sink. For the last twenty years he’d lived by a code that, had this particular situation actually been in the books, would surely have demanded that he look away. But he didn’t. His gaze was riveted to a smooth ivory spine that curved delicately to what was no doubt a well-proportioned posterior. Unfortunately, verification of that hypothesis was impossible, since that body part was abruptly cut off by the end of the mirror.

“So what’s yours?” she asked him.

He snapped his attention back to her face. “My what?”

“Name,” she coaxed. “I should at least know who to send the bill for my new pants.”

Maybe she wasn’t kidding. He couldn’t tell. Maybe he should buy her new pants. He didn’t know the protocol for this circumstance. But he did know his name, and he told her. “Wesley Fletcher.”

“Okay, then, Wesley. Move away from the door so I can open it and get my case inside.”

He went back to the kitchen and scowled at the sink. His first day back in Bayberry Cove was certainly not going according to plan.

LOUISE TWISTED THE TAILS of her floral print blouse into a knot at her waist and zipped up her peach-colored shorts. She brushed her hair, gathered it at her crown and whipped the mass through a thick elastic band. In her mind she listed all the details she should consider before contacting Haywood Fletcher about renting the cottage. “Obviously some repairs are needed,” she mumbled to herself, and then froze with her hand on the doorknob.

“Haywood Fletcher!” she said aloud. “The guy just said his name was Wesley Fletcher. He’s no clumsy, blue-eyed plumber. He’s Haywood’s son, the navy man who Jamie said might have his sights set on my cottage.”

She left the bathroom prepared to negotiate for Buttercup Cottage. Finding her adversary flat on his back under the sink, she tapped the sole of his sneaker with her big toe. He pushed himself out and sat up, leaving his cap behind collecting drops of water from the faucet above.

Draping well-muscled arms over bent knees, he looked at her for a second and then ran tapered fingers over close-cropped, wheat-colored hair.

“Damn.” He groped under the sink and retrieved his cap. The gold insignia had taken on the same rusty hue as Louise’s capris, and he frowned at the ruined embroidery.

“Looks pretty bad,” Louise said, allowing herself a little smile. “I know how you feel.”

“I have others.”

“Navy officer issue, right?”

He nodded and stood up. “You look better.”

“I think I washed off anything that might enter my bloodstream and communicate a fatal disease.”

He smiled. “I apologize again. I really didn’t see you. The back door was just the easiest way to dump the corroded water, and I never expected anyone to be outside.”

“Isn’t this the type of town where folks just pop up on their neighbors’ doorsteps for a piece of apple pie?”

He smiled again, revealing even, straight teeth. “In town I suppose that’s true, but out here on the sound, visitors are pretty rare. Besides, nobody knows I’m here. This place has been vacant for so long there’s not a soul who would have a reason to stop.”

“Except for me, you mean.”

“I guess except for you, and I’m a little curious about why you’re here.” He went to an old wooden kitchen table and lifted the lid on a red cooler. He pulled a can of Coke from a pool of melting ice and held it out to her.

She sat on one of the four spindle-back chairs—the one with all its spindles—and popped the top. “I wouldn’t have snuck up on you except I didn’t see a car when I drove up.”

He opened a can for himself, sat across from her and nodded toward the backyard. “My Jeep’s in the shed. I put it there because the salt in the air can be rough on the paint.”

They each took a few sips of soda before Wesley spoke again. “So…why are you here? And even more important, I suppose, who are you?”

She set her Coke down and folded her hands. “My name’s Louise Duncan. I’m a friend of Vicki Soren—” She stopped when she realized she was about to give Vicki’s maiden name, the one she’d used until six months ago. “Make that Vicki Malone.”

“Malone?” He nodded in recognition. “Jamie’s wife? The one who married him so he could get a green card all those years ago?”

“That’s the one.”

“My dad told me those two found each other after something like thirteen years. He said he had a hand in keeping them together after all that time.”

Louise scoffed. “I guess you could say that. I was Vicki’s lawyer, and I drafted the faultless divorce settlement she presented to Jamie. And then your daddy took it upon himself to concoct a number of loopholes. No offense to your father, but he’s a crafty old buzzard.”

Wesley chuckled. “None taken. In the Fletcher family, that’s a compliment.” He eyed her over the top of his can as he took a long swallow. “So you’re a lawyer?”

“That’s right.” She looked directly at him. “And I’ve heard every shark and bottom-feeding joke you can think of, so you can keep them to yourself.”

He affected an innocent shrug. “Believe me, I wasn’t going to make any cracks.”

She relaxed. “Okay then. Now as for why I’m here in Bayberry Cove, I’m on vacation, sort of.” Seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, she announced, “And I’ve come to Buttercup Cottage because I want to rent it for a couple of months.”

He set the can down with a metallic thump. “Sorry. It’s not available.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m living in it.”

“But you could live anywhere.”

“So could you.”

She took a deep breath. Engaging in a war of words with Wesley Fletcher was not likely to get her anywhere, especially since the cottage she now obsessively wanted to rent was in his family’s name. “Look, I might consider renting something else, but my friend told me there is nothing available in Bayberry Cove—no motels, no seasonal places even.”

“That’s true, but you could point that BMW down Sandy Ridge Road, and in ten or fifteen miles you’ll hit some quaint little towns with enough gingerbread bed-and-breakfasts to make your mouth water.” He picked up his can and pointed it in a direction roughly behind him. “Or head to Morgan City and get a room at the Comfort Inn. They have a free continental breakfast.”

“That’s almost twenty miles away.” His answering shrug was impassive, and Louise had to struggle to control her temper. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop and watched for any sign of capitulation. Nothing.

“I think we can reach an agreement here,” she finally said. “I’m only in your town for one reason. My friend lives a mile from this cottage and I want to spend time with her.”

“That makes sense.”

“And I know that your father lives in a big house in town. Jamie Malone told me. Couldn’t you stay there for a couple of months? Then when I leave, you could move back to this place.”

He shook his head. “I’d rather not. It’s really not convenient.”

Logic wasn’t working, and now Louise wanted to rent Buttercup Cottage with a craving that was almost scary. She changed tactics. “I’ll pay you, of course. And I know this time of year demands higher rates. Would you say a thousand dollars a month is a fair price?”

He barked with amusement. “For this little water-front gem?” He leaned toward her across the table. “Here’s what I think is a fair price. Assuming I can get the pipes fixed…” he glanced around the small kitchen “…and assuming these old appliances are in working order, which I haven’t tested yet since you stopped by and interrupted me. And assuming that when I get up on the roof and walk around I won’t find any leaks…then I’d say a fair price might be about four hundred a month.”

Now they were getting somewhere. In fact, Wesley was turning out to be a decent guy. “You’d do all these repairs and only charge me four hundred a month?”

“No. I said that would be a fair price. Actually, I’m not going to charge you anything because I’m not renting you this house.”

She stood up, sending her chair scooting along the worn linoleum floor. “I see what’s happening here,” she said.

“You do?”

“Absolutely. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He looked at his wristwatch. “Can I at least move back to the sink? I’m behind schedule already.”

She glared at him, then picked up her keys from where he’d left them on the counter, and stomped through the kitchen to a parlor, where a few old pieces of furniture were haphazardly arranged. She picked her way through a clutter of old magazines and knickknacks and stepped out the front door to her car. Opening the passenger door of the BMW, she snatched her purse from the front seat. When she went back to the kitchen, Wesley was under the sink again.

“Excuse me,” she said.

He scooted out and stood up.

Louise moved to within inches of him and waved her checkbook in front of his eyes. “How much? Name your price.”

He stared at her and slowly shook his head. “Are you crazy?”

“I want to rent this place, Wesley Fletcher. And I mean to have it. I’ve played games with your father in the past, but I’d rather not play games with you. Can’t we just settle this here and now?”

His blue eyes turned flint-gray, and Louise took a step back. Be nice, Lulu, she said to herself. Be compassionate and caring like Roger says. Don’t intimidate. She took a deep breath. “Please, Wesley. I’ll pay whatever you say.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with serious intent. After a moment he turned his hands palms up. Louise experienced a gratifying rush of victory at the obvious gesture of surrender.

And then he said, “The place isn’t for rent. That’s final.”

His was as resolute a face as she’d ever seen in her life. It was a granite and steel countenance that would be perfect at a peacemaking summit between world powers. Or above the green felt of a high-stakes poker table. And it was a face that wasn’t going to change.

Louise marched into the bathroom, stuffed her soiled clothes into her suitcase and her feet into her ruined sandals and wheeled the bag back to the kitchen. Wesley was under the sink again, but his shadowed gaze snapped from the gaping pipes and remained fixed on her face.

“I suggest you let the local postman know you’re living here, Wesley,” she said. “The bill for my clothes will arrive in the mail. Since I don’t have an address, you may send your check in care of the Malones.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in an odd little grin that might have been endearing on a young boy, but was simply maddening on Wesley. “Aye, aye, Counselor,” he said.

She stepped to the sink, carefully avoiding contact with his bent knee, and gave the old enamel spigot one quick flick of her wrist. The rewarding squeal and shimmy of old copper tubing filled her with satisfaction. Water spurted through the pipes, hitting Wesley Fletcher square in the middle of his smug face. Louise smiled down at him, grabbed the handle of her suitcase and exited Buttercup Cottage.