Enright Family Collection (142 page)

Perhaps she should find the classified section from last Sunday’s paper and see what kind of space might be available to rent out. If there was nothing suitable, what would she do? Maybe someplace closer to Bishop’s Cove, if there is nothing here around O’Hearn.

I guess I should call the realtor whose name
is
on the sign on that storefront in town. There’s no point in waiting until the trucks pull in the drive and Matt starts to unload his equipment.

Gathering the pruned-off apple suckers she’d dropped to the ground, she carried them to the side of the house where the trash cans sat and dumped them in a pile. Later she’d come back out with a ball of string and she’d tie them up into a neat bundle. Right now, she had a few phone calls to make.

Late Friday afternoon, as Georgia turned toward the farmhouse with the armful of iris she had just finished picking, the black pickup pulled into the drive. She’d tried to pretend all day that she wasn’t waiting for him, wasn’t watching for him, didn’t jump every time a car slowed down, but her efforts to convince herself were futile. Matt had called the night before to remind her that he’d be making dinner for her on Friday, and it was Friday, and just about time for him to show up. And there he was, cool and handsome getting out of the truck, his dark hair tumbling down across his forehead just ever so slightly as he leaned over to get something from the floor of the cab.

And there he was, walking across the yard to greet her, his eyes looking into hers telling her everything he’d not said on the phone the night before.

And there he was, his arms closing around her and his mouth seeking hers before he’d said a word to her ...

“I think I mashed your flowers,” he said, finally, his arms easing up just a little.

“It’s okay. I’ll stick them in water and they’ll be fine.” She was looking up at him and so was unaware
that several of the irises hung at awkward angles from their stems. “I thought I’d bring a vase of flowers over ... to your apartment, that is ... for the table.

For dinner.”

“That would be nice,” he smiled, thinking of the other little details he planned on tending to before she arrived later. “How ’bout if I take them over now? That way I can put them on the table when I set it?”

He took the flowers from her.

“I thought maybe we’d eat around eight. No earlier, though. I won’t be ready before then.”

“Won’t be ready?” She laughed. “That’s another hour and forty minutes from now. What on earth are you making?”

“It’s a surprise. Eight o’clock. No earlier.” He bent down and kissed the tip of her nose.

Tickled that he’d taken the time to plan a surprise—of whatever sort hardly mattered to her—Georgia ran upstairs to shower away the dirt from the garden. She finished drying her hair and tried to decide, once and for all, what to wear. Finally deciding on a long, floaty gauze skirt of soft rose, with a matching short-sleeve shirt to wear over a tight-fitting camisole in a paler shade, she slipped on mother-of-pearl earrings and a wide cuff bracelet of silver, then tied her hair back in a thin scarf of rose and cream silk. Not too dressy, but not farmhand casual, either. Satisfied, she went downstairs and looked at the clock on the kitchen wall.

Seven forty-five.

She had fifteen minutes to spare.

“Spam,” she called out the back door, and the pig came rolling out from under the lilac bush. “Time for
you to come in, girl. Oh, I know it’s still light out. Now, if you were a little smarter, I’d explain daylight savings time to you, but things being such as they are, we’ll just say that it’s time for you to come in and let it go at that.”

Spam grunted softly as Georgia lifted her and carried her into the safety of the screened porch.

“Yes, I know you’d like to come with me, but you can’t. You weren’t invited.” She set the pig down on her bed and picked up the water bowl, taking the ceramic dish inside and rinsing it in the sink. She refilled it with cold water and took it back out to the porch. She patted Spam on the head, scratched under the pig’s chin, sending Spam, momentarily, to piggy heaven before returning to the kitchen to wash her hands.

Seven forty-nine.

She pushed aside the curtains and looked across the yard. There was an odd glow from the front windows. Whatever was Matt doing over there?

Seven fifty-one.

I’m as nervous as a schoolgirl on my first date. How silly is that
... it
isn’t as if we haven’t... as if we didn’t...

And as if I haven’t been thinking about it all week ... as if I haven’t seen his face every time I’ve closed my eyes, or dreamed about how good it felt to be in his arms, or wondered if this is what it’s like to be falling in love ...

Seven fifty-two.

Eight more minutes.

How best to waste them?

Georgia closed the door of the farmhouse behind her and stood on the back steps. The honeysuckle was just coming into its own, and the roses that hung
over the fence had just come into bud that week. The first stars had already appeared. It was a perfect late spring dusk, the sun balancing atop the trees beyond the barn and the last of the bird songs drifting across the farmyard. Pumpkin Hill was, truly, a wonderful place to be in the spring. She looked forward to spending the summer there, to rising early to water her garden and inspect the newest growth, to the rich smell of ripe tomatoes and sweet cantaloupes, to air scented with rain-drenched basil and dill and rosemary, to harvesting her own produce for the very first time in her life.

And what of autumn, of winter ...?

Georgia had high hopes of seeing both seasons come and go right here. There seemed to be just about everything she’d ever really needed, right here.

From a open window Georgia heard the old mantel clock chime eight bells. Exhaling deeply, she headed for the barn, and Matt, and for whatever the night would bring.

chapter twenty-one

Matt lifted the lid of the Dutch oven for the fiftieth time.
A watched pot doesn’t boil
—he remembered hearing his mother saying that so many times that he thought she had authored the cliché—but it was almost eight o’clock and Georgia would be there any minute. He poked his head back into the living room where he’d set the small round table with white dishes on a blue and white checkered cloth, her irises off to one side.

And candles. Everywhere.

Tall white tapers and dozens of votives in pretty glass bowls stood on every flat surface around the small living room, all waiting to be lit. Matt ducked back into the kitchen and lifted the lid on the rice. Watched or not, it was boiling, and the stir-fry needed only a few more seconds. He turned the flame down and took a deep breath. He’d never cooked dinner for a woman before. Had never gone to such lengths to surprise a woman—to please a woman—before.

But then again, there’d never been anyone quite like Georgia in his life before.

Oh, Georgia had been on his mind, all right. All week long, she’d stayed with him, in his heart and in his mind.
Just an old sweet song,
indeed, he’d thought. It had disconcerted him at first, this always-on-my-mind thing, but he’d been unable to shake the feeling that there was more—so much more—ahead for them. He’d come to look forward to seeing her face in his mind’s eye, to the vision of her in that pink leotard as she had walked away from him that day in the farmyard, to the memory of that lilting laugher and million-dollar smile. There’d never been a woman in his head before, and now that he was beginning to get used to the idea, he was thinking he might actually like it.

“Just a minute,” he called out when she rapped on the door. “I’ll be right there.”

He paused, wondering if he should light the rest of the candles now, as he had originally planned on doing, hoping to dazzle her with the sight, or whether to wait till he was ready to serve dinner. Having decided to wait until dinner, he slipped the book of matches back into his shirt pocket and opened the door.

“Ummm,” she sniffed appreciatively. “Whatever it is, it smells wonderful.”

“Thanks,” he grinned and stood aside to let her enter. “I remembered that you liked curry ...”

“Oh, I love it!” She went to one of the pots and raised the lid to peek within. “Oh, yum, you made the rice with the raisins in it. My favorite.”

“That’s one of my favorites, too.” He checked the
stir-fry, then turned off the flame. “I’m glad you were on time. Dinner’s actually ready.”

“May I help?”

He hesitated, then handed her a blue and white bowl.

“If you wouldn’t mind spooning the rice into this bowl, I’ll be right back ...”

What
is
he up to?
she wondered as he disappeared into the next room.

Her curiosity was beginning to get the best of her when he came back into the kitchen and took the bowl from her hands.

“Come on in and have a seat,” he told her.

She followed the sound of his voice, and walked into a room alive with the soft flicker of candlelight.

“Oh, Matt, it’s beautiful.” She sighed. “Just beautiful. However did you think to do this?”

“Candles on the table didn’t seem to give quite enough light,” he grinned, “and too much light would make viewing so difficult.”

“‘Viewing’?” she asked.

“The film.” He held out a chair for her, gesturing for her to be seated, then poured wine into a pretty stemmed glass and handed it to her. “I thought we’d have a little dinner, and watch a little Holmes.”

The wide-screen TV sat at an angle to the room, and the lights blinking on the VCR indicated that the film was loaded and ready to go.

“Let me just bring in the food, and we’ll be all set.”

“What’s the movie?” Georgia asked, pleased and flattered by the time and attention he’d given to planning this evening with her.

“It’s an old British production of
The Sign of Four.”

He placed the bowl of brightly colored vegetables between them, then sat down opposite her. Filling his own wineglass, he raised it to her and said softly, “To many more evenings together.”

She touched the rim of his glass with her own, then sipped at her wine, wishing she could think of something to say, but caught off guard, could come up with nothing to match the romantic spell he’d already woven around them. Instead, she merely took another sip of wine.

Matt served her first, then himself, saying, “Anyway, to get back to the movie. This one stars a British actor, Arthur Wontner, as Holmes. Now, I personally prefer Basil Rathbone in the role, but all things considered, I think that Wontner does an excellent job. This film is actually two stories in one. The first is Holmes’s investigation into a death and a subsequent theft, and the second is a romance ...”

“A romance?” Georgia tried to recall the few Sherlock Holmes films she had watched on TV on rainy Saturday afternoons. “Fascinating character though Holmes may have been, I don’t think of him as being particularly romantic.”

“Oh, I agree.” Matt smiled, happy that his choice for the evening was prompting some discussion, some interest on her part. “Holmes was a great detective, but he was, frankly, a bit of a misogynist. He had little use for women. The romance I spoke of was between Watson—who really was a ladies’ man—and Holmes’s client, Mary Morstan.”

“I read that someplace ... that Holmes had a low opinion of women.”

“I think he thought they were unnecessary and not
to be trusted. He says that, as a matter of fact... that even the best of them are not to be trusted.” Matt grinned. “A sentiment I do not share, by the way, but it makes for an interesting character study.”

“Have you?” she asked, “studied his character?”

“I did a paper on Holmes for an English class in college some years ago. I admit I chose the topic because I’d seen a few of the movies and figured it would be an easy paper. It was, because I enjoyed it, but I found the characters more complex than I’d given Conan Doyle credit for.”

“Ah, so that’s how you got hooked.”

“That’s how I got hooked,” he nodded. “And you? Anyone in particular that you read religiously?”

“Only my mother,” Georgia grinned.

“I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never read any of her books.”

“What? A die-hard detective fan such as yourself has never read a Shellcroft?” She feigned horror.

“What’s a Shellcroft?”

“Harvey Shellcroft is a recurring character in a series my mother wrote early on in her career. He’s a wonderful character—part Columbo, part Jessica Fletcher, part Holmes. Harve was so popular that when my mother wanted to start a new series with a new detective, her publisher wouldn’t let her until she threatened to kill Harvey off.”

Matt laughed.

“It’s the truth. So now Mom does a new Harve every eighteen months to keep his fans happy, and in between time, writes other books that make her happy.”

“That’s interesting, that she’s sensitive to her readers.”

“She is sensitive to everyone.”

“I’m beginning to believe that.”

“My mother is a very caring person.” Georgia speared a snow pea and nibbled one end of it. “She has always devoted herself to her children and her work. I’m so thrilled to see that she is taking some time to have a little fun for herself.”

“You’re referring to Gordon Chandler.”

Georgia nodded. “He seems like such a perfect match for her. He’s interesting, active, intelligent—and he seems to care for Mother.”

“I thought he was quite solicitous of her when they were here last weekend.”

“So did 1.1 like to see that someone is taking care of her. Not that she needs it, but it’s just good to see someone do the kind of little things for her that she’s always doing for other people. And she seems happy to be with him. Maybe it’s finally her time to find happiness.”

“I hope you’re right. Chandler seems to be the kind of guy you wouldn’t mind having date your mother.”

“And while we’re on the subject of people our favorite relatives might be interested in, have you had a chance to meet Tucker Moreland?”

“Not yet. I haven’t gotten out to Bishop’s Cove yet. But it’s on the agenda. Maybe I’ll take a ride out there tomorrow. Unless, of course, you have some farm chores lined up for me ...” he teased.