It's a Wonderful Wife (9 page)

EIGHT

Cadi set a match to the cardboard and wood scraps she'd spent the last hour carrying out to her backyard fire pit, then stepped back and protectively hugged herself as she watched the flames creep toward the small sheet of plywood on top of the pile. But instead of the apprehension she'd been expecting, she felt surprisingly calm. Peaceful. Maybe even relieved.

No, wait. There. Were those shivers of doubt?

She momentarily stilled, then broke into a huge smile. Nope, that wild fluttering in her stomach was butterflies, she decided, batting their wings in anticipation of being set free.

And she didn't care if Beatrice did mean well, the woman had no business trying to scare her. “At least you have the good sense to get a motorhome and stay at campgrounds,” her friend had said on their ride to Ellsworth three days ago, when Cadi had tried to prepare Bea for all the changes she intended to make. “Families and poor college students go camping, where there's no telling what sort of weirdos you'd run into staying at motels. But I think you should limit your travels to Maine, so you won't be too far away if you get in trouble.” Bea had glanced over with an indulgent smile. “And if you truly feel daring, you could even venture into New Hampshire and Vermont. Those states are a lot like Maine.”

“I'm fairly certain the whole point of traveling is to experience something
different
,” Cadi had said. “And for me, that means visiting cities like Boston and New York. And I've always wanted to go to Florida and swim in ocean water that's warm.”

Bea's smile had disappeared. “The sun reflecting off all that white sand will burn you to a crisp,” she'd countered. “And can you imagine trying to maneuver even a small motorhome around Boston?”

“And then I'll head west,” Cadi had continued brightly, determined to stay positive, “and visit Yellowstone and Yosemite and Glacier National Park. I'll camp in a redwood forest, raft through the Grand Canyon, and ride every roller coaster I come across.”

“And you will,” Bea had responded tightly, “with your
husband
.”

“And just where am I supposed to find this great traveler,” Cadi had said with mounting frustration, “when the only eligible bachelors in fifty miles are fishermen or loggers who think Massachusetts is a foreign country?” She'd rolled her eyes. “When Bryan Fibbs mentioned his mom is planning to spend the summer with her sister, he turned as pale as a turnip when I suggested he drive Ansley to Portland instead of making her take the bus.”

“Bryan gets lost driving to Bangor,” Beatrice had snapped, only to take a calming breath. “People from away come here. Isn't Stanley from North Dakota?”

“From a town smaller than Whistler's Landing. All we get are retired summer people, and then usually only because they're lost.” And then, for some insane reason, Cadi had added, “And it's not like I don't know anyone who lives in big cities, or are you forgetting that many of Dad's and Stanley's clients are from Boston and New York? In fact, Mr. Sinclair suggested I call him if I find myself in New York. And judging by the pictures I saw online, the personal tour he offered to give me of his beautiful home would definitely be worth battling city traffic to see. Rosebriar—that's the name of the estate his grandfather built—sits on twelve hundred acres and supposedly has eighteen bedrooms and
twenty-four
bathrooms.”

Beatrice had suddenly pulled into a convenience store's parking lot, shifted the car into park, and turned as far as her seat belt would allow, making Cadi lean away from her glare. “Let me guess; I bet you told him you would love to have a
personal
tour.”

Apparently still insane, Cadi had silently nodded.

“And that is exactly why you have no business traipsing all over the country alone. Not only did you willingly climb in his truck last night and let him drive you over an hour away, now you're telling me you intend to go see his home. So who else lives in this veritable palace with him? His parents? Brothers and sisters? His
wife
?”

Cadi had shaken her head. “He's not married. And it's my understanding his parents died when he was young, and Jesse has had Rosebriar to himself since his grandfather passed away three and a half years ago and his brothers got married and moved to Maine. Well, he mentioned having a cook, and I'm sure an estate that size has other staff, so it's not like he's completely alone. What's the big deal, anyway? Knowing I'm interested in beautiful architecture, I think it was nice of him to invite me to go see Rosebriar.”

“Please tell me you're not that naive, Cadi,” Beatrice had whispered. “Rich, handsome men like Mr. Sinclair do not invite single, blonde-haired, blue-eyed women over to show them twenty-four bathrooms.”

“No, you're wrong about Jesse. He was a perfect gentleman last night, and even offered to unhook his camper and drive me all the way back home because he didn't like the idea of my staying at a motel. And trust me,” Cadi had muttered, looking out the windshield, “I might not be worldly and sophisticated
yet
, but I'm definitely smart enough to know Jesse would never be interested in me that way.” She'd turned just enough for her friend to see her smile, once again determined to lighten the mood. “And I also know the reason he's building on Hundred Acre Isle is because he's planning to get married and start a family. So I doubt a man focused on finding a wife is going to lure a Maine country bumpkin all the way to New York just to seduce her. So come on, already,” she'd said, gesturing at the road. “This blonde-haired, blue-eyed bumpkin needs to buy herself a shiny red sports coupe. A convertible,” she continued when Bea had hesitated. “One that will fit in a trailer I can tow behind the motorhome,” she'd added in relief when her friend had finally started off again. “So the car will
stay
shiny.”

Cadi came back to the present when the sea breeze sent several pieces of glowing cardboard swirling into the air. She added more scraps to the fire, then plopped down in one of the cedar lawn chairs. During their ride back from Ellsworth—without a sporty red convertible, since the dealership had sold the one she'd been eyeing two months ago—Cadi had managed to persuade Beatrice that she wasn't about to let every handsome man she met seduce her.

That is, right up until they'd returned home to find a huge bouquet of flowers sitting on her front porch. It hadn't helped that the card had said they were from Jesse, or that he'd offered to come pick her up in his corporate jet when she was ready to shop for a motorhome, as he knew a good RV dealership not far from Rosebriar—which, he'd added, would allow her to cross
airplane ride
off her bucket list. There'd also been a P.S. saying that despite the risk of sounding like a killjoy, he wondered if she had considered replacing her old-lady car with a sporty red SUV, as it occurred to him that a bit more road clearance might come in handy when she went looking for glaciers to walk on.

Good Lord, no wonder he was so successful; not only did the man have a memory like a steel trap, he actually
listened
. All of which had her right back to being naive, apparently, with Bea completely dismissing Cadi's argument that the flowers and plane ride were
businessman
Jesse Sinclair's attempt to get her to rebuild his models.

And now two people she loved were barely speaking to her.

For that matter, neither was Wiggles; yesterday's introduction to a harness and leash apparently an affront to the cat's ancestral wild Asian leopard genes.

“What the— Cadi, no!”

Cadi jumped to her feet with a startled gasp just as Stanley charged past.

“You said I had two weeks!” he shouted, kicking at the fire and sending burning wood scattering in a flurry of glowing embers. “Dammit, that was a model.” He rounded on her when Cadi grabbed his arm. “Which one? Whose house was it?”

“Covington's,” she said calmly, dragging him away from the pit. “And that wasn't a model; it was a mess of walls and windows that didn't make a lick of sense.” She gave him a tug when he glanced back at the fire. “God Himself couldn't design a house for Marilyn Covington.” Cadi nodded toward what was left of the plywood. “That was attempt number
four
.”

Stanley shrugged free and scrubbed his face on a groan. “I was afraid it was Stapleton's,” he said behind his hands before dropping them to give her a pleading look. “Please tell me you haven't burned his model.”

“There is nothing to burn except the sketchbook.”

“Nothing?” he whispered, turning as pale as bleached flour. But then he brightened. “Do you at least have preliminary drawings I can use to work up something to show him?”

Cadi slipped her arm through his and started toward the house. “Not yet, unless you can make Dante's
Inferno
look like paradise.”

He pulled her to a stop, having gone pale again. “Jesus, Cadi, the guy's coming here day after tomorrow.”

“What? So soon? But at your meeting three weeks ago, I distinctly remember hearing you say you'd have something to show him in
September
.”

“I did. But when he called last week, I . . . ah, I promised to move him to the top of the list. My plan was that once we showed Sinclair his models, I'd ask you to start on Stapleton's next. But when he called again this morning saying he was flying up to see what I've got, I was only able to stall him two days. You always flesh out your sketches after a meeting while everything's still fresh in your mind; all I need are a few drawings to prove I'm working on it.”

“I came home and shoved Stapleton's sketchbook to the bottom of the pile because I thought the man was a pompous ass. Didn't I tell you not to take him on? I knew five minutes into the meeting he would be a demanding client. So how much did he offer you to cut in line?”

Stanley shook his head. “My agreeing to give him priority has nothing to do with money—at least not the way you think.” He hesitated, then clasped her shoulders on a deep breath. “You know I have a brother who's been trying to open a restaurant in New York City? Well,” he went on when she nodded, “Aaron ended up borrowing the startup money from Ryan Stapleton. But after eating at the restaurant last month, Stapleton said he didn't like the food and wanted his money back—immediately. All of it, including an obscene amount of interest, or Aaron would find himself feeding fish at the bottom of the Hudson River.”

Cadi pulled away with a gasp. “The man's a loan shark? Your brother borrowed money from a
thug
?”

“Apparently,” Stanley muttered. “But having heard Stapleton had just bought a tract of land on Long Island, Aaron mentioned he had a brother who's an architect, and Stapleton came to him a couple of days later and said he'd forgive the entire loan if I design him a house.”

“Nice brother,” she said, only having met Aaron once a couple of years ago, since instead of Aaron visiting Whistler's Landing, Stanley usually went to New York, claiming he liked visiting the city. “Not only was he stupid enough to borrow money from a loan shark—he didn't hesitate to get you involved.”

“Aaron's all the family I got, Cads. And I imagine he thought it would be an easy fix; one house in exchange for one life.”

“Did it ever occur to you to tell
me
what was going on?”

Stanley snorted. “Aaron wasn't exactly forthcoming when he called last month saying he was sending me an important client, and I thought the guy was just some rich businessman he was trying to impress. I didn't get the whole story until I called him after our first meeting with Stapleton.” He snagged her hand and started leading her to the house. “Let's go through your sketchbook and maybe together we can come up with a concept I can expand on.”

He scaled the rear deck stairs with her still in tow, opened the slider and led her inside, then headed directly to the large sunroom off the kitchen. “We'll work all night if we have to, and then . . .” He stopped and clasped her shoulders again. “And then I want you to pack enough clothes to last you a month and get out of here.”

“What? Why?”

“Stapleton asked if he'll also be seeing you when he gets here.” Stanley's usually boyish hazel-gold eyes turned troubled. “I know that sounds like an innocent question, but this morning Aaron confessed that he told Stapleton about your role in Glace and Kerr.”

“Aaron knows?” Cadi said in alarm. “You told your brother what I do?”

He nodded, his face darkening. “We had a bit too much to drink the one time he came to visit, and when he saw one of your models and the plans I was working on, I apparently told him.” His grip tightened when she tried to step away. “And because Stapleton also knows, I'd rather you not be here when he arrives.”

“But
why
?”

Stanley released her and slipped his hands in his pockets as he turned to face the windows overlooking the ocean. “I'm worried that if he doesn't like what I have to show him, the bastard might . . .” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I'm afraid he might come after you.” He turned to face her. “You need to disappear. You said you want to start traveling, so go. Now.”

“But I'm not ready
now
. I haven't even shopped for a camper yet. And the SUV I bought won't be delivered until tomorrow morning.”

“That still gives us plenty of time. We'll work on a preliminary design tonight, and you can be packed and ready to go the moment it arrives.”

“But go
where
?”

“Anywhere,” he said, slashing a hand through the air. “Just drive.” He stepped toward her. “But I don't want you telling anyone where you are, you understand? Not Beatrice and not even me. And because I don't know the full extent of Stapleton's reach, I want you to withdraw enough cash from the bank to last you a month instead of using credit cards.”