Strangers When We Meet (6 page)

Blake handed his rake to Keegan, but his eyes remained locked on Emma’s face. “I think the little girls are right. You are a witch in disguise.”

His gaze was scorching, and she burned at its touch. Deliberately she made herself look away from the man to the boy. “What? You’re turning on me, too?” Keegan began to furiously add more leaves to the pile. A rakefull landed in Emma’s lap, and she brushed the leaves away.

“I have to protect my little cousins,” he said piously, and dumped another armload of leaves onto her feet.

“You just got through telling me you wanted a pile of leaves big enough for you to jump into,” Blake reminded her.

“Jump into, not be buried in.” Emma covered her head with her arms and attempted to stand. The twins had seen their opportunity and were scooping handfuls of leaves in Emma’s direction.

“Too late. Haven’t you ever heard that old saw about being careful what you wish for?” Blake moved so quickly she couldn’t get out of his way. He tackled her, wrapped both arms around her and pulled her down into the dry leaves that smelled of warm, damp earth and memories of summer sun.

“Keegan! Randi!” Robin shrieked “Now we’ve got them both. Hurry! Hurry! Cover them up!”

Leaves rained down over both of them. Blake rolled on top of Emma, shielding her from the onslaught. “Those little turncoats.” He laughed, his face inches from hers, his shoulders taking the brunt of the assault unleashed by their giggling attackers.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves. Dust tickled her nose. But those things were only peripheral distractions. For Emma the world momentarily narrowed to exclude everything but the two of them. She was aware with every fiber of her being of the hard length of his body so close to hers, of his arms holding her safe.

He smelled of earth and the spice of a rich cologne. His eyes were dark and unreadable in the gloom of their almost weightless prison. Her fingers itched to bury themselves in the silky hair at the nape of his neck, and she wanted to run her hands over the corded muscles of his arms and the rock solidness of his back. She wanted to feel his legs tangle with hers, his lips on hers.

To be alone with him. That’s what she’d wanted since they’d first met. It didn’t matter where or how. She’d never even known you could construct a lovers’ cocoon from fallen leaves, but for the moment that’s what they had.

She had Blake Weston to herself, and any thoughts other than that refused to take root in her brain.

She stared at him. She didn’t close her eyes as his head came nearer, his lips mere inches from hers. “Now what?” he asked, and his voice was as warm and earthy as the scents and textures that surrounded them.

“Kiss me.” She didn’t wait for him to do as she bid, but lifted her head, brushed her lips across his. He angled his mouth just slightly, enough for her to know that he wanted inside, and she wanted that, too. Opening her mouth to his, she tasted strength and desire. A heated rush swirled through her veins, pooling low inside and sending tiny arcs of sensation to every nerve ending she possessed. She wanted time to stand still so that their kiss could last forever.

Blake lifted his head and broke the kiss. He reared out of the leaves, scattering them to the four winds, pulling her up with him. Keegan had been standing above them with another armful of leaves. He went head over heels backward, and the twins leaped on him like playful wolf puppies, laughing and pummeling him with their fists, giving Emma and Blake a moment of near solitude in a chaos of autumn splendor.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered. “That’s the last damned thing we should have done.”

Emma didn’t know what to say next. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that incredibly enough, it was exactly the right thing to do, but she never got the chance. Clint was standing on the deck, arms braced on the railing. “Emma, Daryl Tubb is on the phone for you. He said he’ll be here in twenty minutes. He wants to take you to Williamstown for dinner.”

Blake’s hands were still clasped lightly around her forearms. He stiffened, and his grip tightened almost painfully for a split second. Then he let her go.

She wished he hadn’t.

But then, she would have stood there staring at him all day if she had her choice.

She didn’t want to have dinner with Daryl. She wanted to be alone in her room and think about what had just happened to her. Because something had happened. She just couldn’t tell what. “I...tell him I can’t be ready in twenty minutes, Clint. There are so many leaves—”

Clint waved her objections aside. “You’re a guest, not the gardener. I’ll help Keegan finish the raking.”

Blake stepped away, brushed leaves out of his hair and off the front of his sweater. “Go,” he said, not looking at her as he bent to pick up the rake he’d discarded earlier. “He’s waiting for you.”

CHAPTER SIX

T
HE
HOUSE
WAS
QUIET
when Emma let herself in, shutting the heavy oak door behind her as softly as she could. She leaned against the wooden panel for a moment, drinking in the silence and the scents of wood smoke, furniture polish and potpourri from the bowl on a table beside the door. The dining room was deeply shadowed, the silver and glass of the breakfast settings shining fitfully in the reflected light from the gathering room beyond. A figure stirred in one of the wing chairs flanking the massive stone fireplace, which still held the glowing embers of the evening’s fire. It was Maureen, her auburn hair gleaming in the lamplight. She put down the yellow legal pad she’d held in her lap and stretched her arms over her head.

“I must have fallen asleep.”

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, coming in so late.”

“Don’t apologize, Emma. It isn’t late. I came in here to work because Clint’s watching an old western and the noise was distracting me. I guess the fire and the quiet were too much for me.”

She didn’t look as if she’d been dozing. Her eyes were clear and alert, watchful. Emma had noticed that quality about the older woman before. It sometimes made her wonder what Maureen’s life had been like before she came to Cooper’s Corner. Clint had been an architect in New York. That was common knowledge in the village. But Maureen’s past was a blank page. Lori and Burt Tubb weren’t even sure if she was divorced or widowed. Philo and Phyllis Cooper, the owners of Cooper’s Corner General Store and Daryl’s parents’ biggest rivals in the town’s gossip race, either didn’t know or weren’t telling. They were, after all, distant cousins of Maureen’s and Clint’s. As a doctor’s wife, Emma’s grandmother had long ago learned to keep information to herself, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t above speculating on her friends’ and neighbors’ lives when she had Emma for an audience. “There’s a story in Maureen’s past,” she had said more than once. “Mark my words. And it’s not a happy one, I think.”

“Am I the last guest in tonight?” Emma asked.

“Yes. There’s only you and Mr. Weston, and the couple from New Jersey who are visiting their grandson at Williams College. They’ll be leaving tomorrow. It’s a slow time until the holidays and the skiing season get in gear. Or so I’ve been told by the other merchants in town.” Maureen moved past Emma and turned the dead bolt on the door. It slid into place with a heavy, satisfying click. “There, all safe and sound for the night. Would you like a cup of tea or hot chocolate before you turn in?” she asked.

“Please, don’t bother.”

“It’s no bother. It’s hospitality. Personalized service with a smile. It’s what we intend to build our reputation on here at Twin Oaks. Besides, it’s already made.”

“If you insist.”

“I’ll bring it right out, and if you don’t mind I’ll join you.”

“I’d like that.”

“While you’re waiting, there are some pictures on the coffee table you might like to see. They’re of Bonnie Cooper and Jaron Darke’s wedding reception. You’ve met Bonnie, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have. She’s your plumber, isn’t she?”

“And our shirttail cousin.”

“Philo and Phyllis are her parents.”

“You’re learning your Cooper’s Corner family trees very well.”

Emma grinned. “My grandparents keep me well informed of what goes on in town.”

She picked up the photo album, grateful for the reprieve from having to climb the stairs to her empty room. The room she was still refusing to share with Daryl. Emma had been mulling over the idea of leaving Twin Oaks to stay with her grandparents for the rest of the week. But now that Maureen had mentioned a slowdown in business, she was reluctant to be the cause of lost revenue.

Daryl had been as charming as usual at dinner. He’d kept his hands to himself, but she could tell his patience was wearing thin. He was tired of explaining himself, tired of apologizing. He didn’t understand why she could not forgive and forget, and since she couldn’t explain it herself, the evening had been filled with awkward silences and stilted conversation about nothing in particular.

Until Daryl had told her he wouldn’t be able to spend time with her on Monday. He had two prospects to show the old McGillicuddy farm.

“The deal I’ve been working on for the past few months is going to fall through,” he’d said. “It’s been shaky for weeks. I told you that’s why I was having dinner with Heather that night in the city—”

A chill shivered its way down her spine, lifting the short hairs at the nape of her neck. He had called her Heather. Not Ms. Whatever Her Name Was. Not my client’s fiancée. Heather. As though they’d known each other all their lives.

When he’d seen the look on her face, he dropped the subject and began to talk of something else.

A few minutes later he’d driven her to Twin Oaks, angry and frustrated once more, and they’d parted in silence.

Maureen came into the room with a steaming silver pot on a tray and cinnamon-sugar toast cut in wedges on a flowered china plate. “You look as if you could use a little nourishment.”

The cups and saucers were flowered china, too, but the patterns were different, one pastel daises and ivy tendrils, the other a riot of pink roses and forget-me-nots. Emma watched as Maureen poured hot chocolate for both of them. She wasn’t hungry but took a slice of toast anyway, grateful to have something to think about other than her troubled relationship with Daryl. She took a bite and then another, hungrier than she’d thought. She’d eaten very little of her expensive dinner, she realized.

When she finished her toast, Emma opened the album and glanced through the photos of a smiling, brown-haired woman and the tall, dark-haired man at her side. Emma recognized Bonnie at once, and was surprised to see her wearing a designer gown and three-inch spike heels. Whenever Emma had seen her in Cooper’s Corner, she had been wearing jeans and a tool belt.

Maureen saw the look of surprise on her face and interpreted it correctly.

“Bonnie cleans up well, doesn’t she,” she said with a smile. “The wedding was here in Cooper’s Corner. Very simple. Just as she wanted. But Jaron’s mother planned the reception in New York—or rather, his mother and Bonnie’s aunt did. It was very top drawer. Very posh. Clint had to wear a tux. He hasn’t had it out of the closet since we moved up here.”

“He looks very good in it.” Emma tapped one of the photos showing Clint, smiling broadly, with his arms around both newlyweds. “I don’t see you in any of the pictures.”

’Oh, I was there. We all went up and back by bus.”

“I hope they’ll be very happy.”

“I hope so, too. They’re planning to split their time between New York and here. You’ll probably meet Jaron sometime soon.”

Emma put the album on the table. She found she liked being able to put names to faces around town. She’d never lived in a small place like Cooper’s Corner, but she was beginning to think she could adjust to it very easily.

She spied the legal pad Maureen had put down. It was filled with carelessly scrawled notes and what looked like a menu. “Perhaps I’ll get the opportunity to meet Jaron over the holidays. Thanksgiving is just around the corner. I imagine you’re booked solid for that weekend,” Emma said, taking her cue from the underscored heading at the top of the page.

“We do have bookings.” Maureen’s smile was tired, but laced with satisfaction. “And our father will be here for a visit. It’s his first trip home in a year. He’s been teaching in France since our mother died.” The rhythms and cadences of her speech were pure New York. Emma had noticed her accent intensified when she relaxed and settled into a conversation, as she was doing now. She looked less edgy than she had the first time Emma had stayed at the inn. Once or twice Emma thought she’d seen a haunted look in Maureen’s eyes, an uneasiness that had little to do with the day-to-day problems of getting Twin Oaks up and running.

Of course there had been that business of the guest who had disappeared from his room, but he’d later been found safe. And her grandmother had mentioned vague rumors of a private detective nosing around town, asking questions about Maureen and Clint that the locals considered none of his business. If Twin Oaks had been hers, Emma decided, she would also sit up each evening to make sure her guests were tucked in safe and sound and the house was secured, just as Maureen did.

“We’re planning a big party. Turkey, chestnut stuffing, oyster stew, pumpkin pie. All the trimmings. We’re making a real celebration of it. We’ll ask Ed Taylor, the man who raises those marvelous free-range chickens. He hardly has any family left and he always looks as if he could use a good meal. Grace Penrose, too. You know her, I believe. She’ll be neck deep in planning for the Christmas Festival, so I thought it would be nice to save her the trouble of cooking a big meal. And Beth Young will be dropping by later, I hope, to play piano for those of us who simply cannot sit through another football game on TV. Will you be spending Thanksgiving with your grandparents?”

“I hope to,” Emma said carefully.

Maureen watched her closely for a moment over the rim of her cup. “We’d love to have you all join us here. I know how much of an effort cooking a big dinner would be for your grandmother. And—”

“And you know I can’t boil water,” Emma said, laughing.

Maureen opened her mouth as if to protest, then she laughed, too. “I was going to phrase it more delicately,” she admitted. “Please come—unless you’ve already made plans to join the Tubb family.”

Emma took a deep breath and set her cup on the saucer with a click. She might as well get used to making this speech. “Daryl and I have hit a rough patch. I don’t know where we’ll be in our relationship by Thanksgiving.”

“I see.” Maureen looked into her cup for a moment before returning her gaze to Emma’s face. “I couldn’t help but notice he’s...not around much. I won’t ask you any more questions, but if you do ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Maureen. I’m having trouble explaining to myself what’s wrong. It’s damned near impossible to make sense of it to anyone else. Including Daryl. His mother is more than a little peeved at me for postponing our engagement announcement.”

Maureen lifted a brow. “Ah, so there was going to be an announcement this week. Forgive me, but Lori Tubb has been dropping hints all over town.”

Emma winced. “I was afraid of that.”

“I know this one is so old it has a white beard longer than Rip Van Winkle’s, but better safe than sorry. Take it from a woman who knows, to her sorrow, what can happen when you leap headlong into love with the wrong man.”

“The twins’ father?” Emma asked carefully.

“Yes. But it’s long over and done with, and I won’t bore you with the sad details.” Maureen, too, set her cup on the saucer with a little more force than necessary. “You look tired. I’ll leave you to go to bed now. Pleasant dreams, Emma.”

“Thank you. That would be a nice change of pace.” So there was an unhappy relationship in Maureen’s past, Emma thought. She hadn’t been certain if Maureen was widowed or divorced, or had ever been married at all. It wasn’t any of her business, but she did wonder what exactly had happened in her new friend’s past. Maureen’s voice and expression had hardened when she spoke of the twins’ father. There was sorrow in her eyes, and regret, deep and heartfelt. Emma remembered her grandmother’s words. Not a happy story.

Maureen spoke with the sincerity of a woman who knew what she was talking about. Her words were a warning that Emma was more than a little inclined to heed. She didn’t want to end up with the wrong man, be it Daryl Tubb or anyone else.

* * *

S
HE
COULD
SEE
his silhouette outlined against the many-paned dormer window at the top of the stairs. He was sitting with one leg propped on the window seat, his hand resting on his knee. And he was watching her, as silent as the sleeping house.

At the top of the steps, she hesitated, knowing she wouldn’t be able to move past him to her room, pretending they had nothing to say to each other beyond a polite good-night. She gave it a shot anyway, and got as far as putting the key in the lock.

“Emma.” His voice was quiet, low-pitched and as arresting as a hand on her arm. Turning slowly, she faced him. “We need to talk.”

She sighed. “I know.”

He straightened and patted the cushioned seat beside him. “Come, sit down. The view is spectacular.”

She did as he asked, settling gingerly onto the window seat as far from him as she could manage. But the dormer was narrow, and his thigh was mere inches from hers, so close she could feel the heat of his body and sense the strength in the bone and muscle of his leg.

The view was spectacular, so she concentrated on that and not on Blake’s nearness. The village was spread out below them, sleeping in the moonlight. Starlight flickered on the water of the creek as it wound its way through the meadow. The steeple of the church was touched with gilt, and the almost bare branches of the trees bowed and curtsied in the light wind.

“There’s a weather change coming,” Emma said. “Tomorrow will be the last of the warm days, I believe.”

He ignored her attempt to keep the conversation in shallow water. “The first thing I want to say is I’m sorry for what happened this afternoon.”

“You didn’t have to wait up to tell me that,” she said.

“Yes, I did. I’m not good at apologizing, but I’m getting better at it with you. It seems like just about every time we meet, I end up saying I’m sorry for one thing or another.” There was a trace of amusement in his deep voice. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Emma felt a flare of temper. “I think I had something to do with that kiss.” She was amazed at the note of challenge that had crept into her voice as if of its own accord. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness of their alcove, and she saw him open his mouth as if to deny her words, then shut it abruptly. “As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember asking you to kiss me. I’m the one who should apologize. I took advantage of your broken heart.”

Blake made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like someone choking back laughter. “My broken heart?”