What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (25 page)

Glancing out the long bank of windows, she paused a moment to enjoy the last blood-red bands of sunset, which seemed to cling to the sky like fresh gashes of paint stuck to a raw canvas.

How would I paint that? The colors are primal today. Golden amber … red ochre … I’d spackle the paint on with a knife, not mix it first on the palette. But I could never paint fast enough to keep up with the changes shifting through the clouds as the sun sinks. I’d have to photograph it first
.

She watched another moment, absorbed in a color reverie.
Some days the sunset fades. Other days, the sky seems to grow more vivid. Like relationships, I suppose. Some just fade away. Some grow more intense
.

The possibility that a connection with Zack could intensify
sent a thrill down her long legs through to the end of her toes. But such intensity, she worried, could burn out just as quickly as the rapidly sinking sun.

Zack Calvin stood close enough to Miranda to inhale the scent of her perfume—something floral and spicy. He put his hand in the small of her back to guide her to their table. Already the Lighthouse Tavern was humming with activity, half the tables filled and a short line at the
maftre d’s
podium. As he walked them to their corner, Zack glanced around the room with its flickering candles and smiling faces.
Is there anyone here I know
? Inexplicably, the thought gave him a twinge of nerves.

“Your waiter will be right with you,”
the maître d’said as
he glided Miranda’s chair into place. Aromas of sauces and seasonings wafted past their table as servers delivered fragrant, steaming dishes.

Zack helped Miranda off with her sweater, before she settled in her chair. En route to the restaurant, she’d reclined in the bucket seat of his car as though it’d been sculpted for
her, but for some reason, she’d seemed uncomfortable.
I’m a little nervous. Maybe she is too
.

The dress she wore was just right—sleek and elegant without being formal.
She’d look great in emeralds
, Zack thought,
if she ever wears serious jewelry
. She smiled at him and looked down shyly, fidgeted with something in her lap, then looked out the window at the view.

Following her gaze, he noticed how different the Central Coast view appeared in comparison with Santa Barbara. The lights were few—just enough to mark the coastline, unrelieved by offshore rigs or tankers. The beacon’s rhythmic flash from the
real
lighthouse darted across gleaming dark water. It seemed a cozy and deliciously remote setting.

Zack’s musings were interrupted by a visit to their table. “Well, you didn’t tell me your date was a heart-stopper.” Michael Owen seemed perfectly in his element, playing the gracious host. “I see now why you gave me the third degree about tonight’s menu.”

Zack had removed his napkin from his lap and begun to stand. But before he could push his chair back, Michael placed a hand on his shoulder. “No, no please don’t get up. Just introduce me to your beautiful friend.”

Miranda blushed, and her eyes darted to Zack.
She’s obviously chafing under all this attention
. Her eyes pleaded with him to make it all go away. Despite Michael’s invitation to remain seated, Zack stood, and kept the introduction simple. “Michael Owen, chef, Miranda Jones, artist.”

The chef bent over Miranda’s hand as he kissed it. As soon as he released her, she withdrew her hand. Zack said, “Well, we’re looking forward to the meal, Michael.”

Despite the slight edge in Zack’s voice, Michael didn’t pick up the signal.
The guy must be transfixed. But she looks like she’s about to flee
. “Uh, thanks for stopping by the table.”

As though a hypnotist had snapped his fingers, the spell that’d fallen over Michael was broken. His gaze came up to meet Zack’s with a nod of understanding. “Hope you have a wonderful evening.” He moved onto the next table, returning to his role as gregarious host.

Zack stood for a moment longer, looking down at Miranda who’d resumed staring out the window.
She’s a puzzle, this woman. Sure of herself, yet suddenly shy—painfully so
. He reseated himself, pulled his chair in and leaned across the table. “Are you all right?”

His remark seemed to startle her. “Oh. Sorry. Yes. Of course. Fine.” She attempted a smile.

Zack searched for a way to ask, without asking, what might be behind so much discomfort. “I was hoping you’d like this restaurant. We can go somewhere else, if you’d prefer.”

“Oh, no! Not at all. I’ve never eaten here. Never been here at night. The lights … and the beacon … they’re lovely.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Surprised?”

“That you’ve never been here.”

“I didn’t say that.” She fidgeted in her chair, turning again toward the window.

“Well, Michael had ever met you—”

She turned to face him. “Michael and I
have
met. It’s a small town, you know.”

Zack couldn’t read her expression. “Miranda I just meant that you obviously made quite an impression on him. He
doesn’t seem so easily impressed.” He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “You’re a beautiful woman. Why shouldn’t he be impressed?”

Miranda brought her gaze up to his, the candle bouncing light from her silky green and igniting tiny emeralds in her eyes. The tension seemed to vanish, the touch of their hands sparking a connection.

They were interrupted again, this time by the arrival of the salads and entrées. Miranda raised an eyebrow as she said, “I can’t decide whether to be flattered or offended.”

“Because I ordered for you? Well, why don’t you decide after you taste the food?”

“That’s a neat way off the hook.”

“Pun intended?”

Miranda looked down at her salad of arugula and Mandarin orange, then at the perfectly sautéed seafood. Taking his suggestion, she lifted a morsel of tender fish to her mouth. “Mmm, superb.” Between bites she asked, “When did you have time to make all these arrangements about the menu? And how did you find the Tavern?” There was mischief in her eyes and Zack smiled.

“The manager at the Belhaven gave me some brochures. But I like to do my homework, so I wanted to come out and see the place first.”

She tried a bite of winter squash, apparently approving, then asked, “What else have you found out about my little town?”

Zack looked into her eyes. “That it seems to be full of unexpected treasures.”

Miranda Jones turned away from the intensity of Zack’s
gaze and glanced around the restaurant. All the tables held small flickering lights—clear vials of oil supporting bright flames. Next to each, stood charming decorations—miniature trees draped with tiny pumpkins hanging from their vines.

Meanwhile, servings of pasta seemed to spin by her head as a busy waitress expertly wielded multiple plates balanced on her arms. Just then, their waiter appeared as if by a prearranged cue with a bottle of white wine, which he uncorked, pouring the first sip into Zack’s glass. Zack took his time eyeing the color, inhaling the fragrance, swilling the mouthful. Pronouncing it excellent, he signaled the waiter to pour.

“Well, how about a toast?” Zack offered. “To … the Cove.”

Miranda touched the stem of her wineglass and hesitated.

“Something wrong?” Zack asked.

“No … I, well, I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Oh … I’m sorry. I just assumed.” Zack looked awkwardly at his glass and put it down.

“Oh, but please,” she protested, “I don’t mind if other people do!”

Zack persisted. “Have a sip at least.”

If I don’t relent, he’ll probably keep pestering me
. “All right. One sip.”

Clinking his glass against hers, he toasted, “To the most gracious woman in Milford-Haven.” He took a swallow. “Mmm. Excellent. Gee, I’d love to hear about this, why you don’t drink.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you some time.”

An awkward silence descended. After another bite of food, Zack asked, “Did you grow up around here?”

“Yes … and no. Northern California. Near San Francisco.”

“A native Californian! Like me.”

“Santa Barbara has always been home for you?” she asked.

“All my life. So you gave up the big city for an artists’ colony. Was that the draw?”

“Your turn for a pun.”

“Touché. Really, though. Was that it?”

Miranda stared out the window at the lights trailing away down the coastline. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s the light.” She brought her gaze back to him. “Light has so much to do with the visual identity of a place. In Hawaii it’s. … Or like cities … ever been to Paris?”

He nodded.

“Okay, think of Paris. Then think of New York. They have completely different light, don’t you think?”

“Light?” Zack’s expression was bemused, tolerant. “Paris?”

He’s looking at me like I’m crazy
. “Never mind. It’s just … painter stuff.” She changed the subject. “Speaking of cities, when did you first start coming to Milford-Haven?”

Zack shook his head as though to keep up. “Just the other day.”

“But Santa Barbara’s so close … I can’t believe you haven’t been up here before. Your schedule must keep you very busy.”

“Yeah, I’m working all the time.”

“Doing what?”

“Now wait a minute. We were talking about lighting. Only an artist would even think of it. What do you mean exactly?” Zack took another mouthful of his dinner.

Miranda shifted in her seat. “I can paint my ideas much better than I can explain them. Let’s see. Imagine a city on a bright, sunny day. Whenever there’s bright sun, there are also
shadows, so what you really see is a light/dark cityscape—buildings throw dark gray shadows across one another; sidewalks bounce light back so brightly they seem almost white.”

“High contrast.” Zack took another swallow of his wine.

‘Yes, almost like a black and white photograph with thousands of shadings of gray.” Miranda could hear her own voice grow more animated as she visualized what she described. “Now imagine that same city on an overcast day.”

“Sounds monochromatic.”

“No! Not at all! The more subtle lighting enables you to see the true colors. A park bench that might’ve seemed dark gray turns out really to be dark green. The water in a pond no longer looks black, it picks up the blue and green of sky and algae. The yellow of a table-umbrella is so bright it looks like a little spot of sunshine. Diffused lighting intensifies all the colors, you see? Makes them pop out, instead of getting diluted by so many lumens from the sun.”

Zack started to smile.

“What?” She smiled back. “I’m going on, aren’t I?”

“Your face … I think it might be emitting lumens too.” He chuckled. “Really, I think it’s great! But you might want to eat your dinner.”

“Oh!” She grinned and took a bite.

“It’s a gift, you know.”

“What is?” she asked.

“To know what you love. To
do
what you love.”

She shrugged. “But … what else is there?”

Zack Calvin stood when Miranda excused herself to visit the ladies’ room, then sat to peer out the window and enjoy the pleasant buzz of the wine as it softened the edges of distant lights.

God, she’s a beauty. Watching her eat … that mouth … it was all I could do not to stare. But the way she talks … I’m not sure I get it. When she said “What else is there?” she seemed to mean it. So is she some kind of “free spirit” with no clue how life really works? Or am I just missing something?

As he saw her returning to the table, he rose again and noticed an odd expression crossing her features.
Am I embarrassing her by standing? Or does she
like
the courtly gestures?
He tried to help her with her chair, but she was too quick for him. He returned to his own side of the table and resumed his seat.

Their dessert arrived—a lemon mousse. Zack couldn’t keep from watching as she took her time, apparently savoring the delicate flavor he himself was enjoying.

He finished his own in four quick bites and pushed away his plate.
That was tasty but I guess I wolfed it down. She’s only half way through hers. I could never eat that slowly … nor that sensuously
. To distract himself, he asked, “What about that whale painting I saw at Finder’s Gallery—where did that image come from?”

She put down her fork. “I care about whales.”

Wow, she sounds vehement
. “A lot of people say they care about whales. I don’t see them capturing the look in a whale’s eye. Not a happy look, either. It seemed … I don’t know, vicious, or maybe angry.”

“You would be too, if someone was shooting harpoons at
you.”

“Oh, so you were imagining the whale trying to escape from whalers?”

Miranda hesitated. “I was out there with them.”

“Out there … where? Whale watching?”

“I was a crew-member on a Peace Planet voyage.”

“I’ve heard of that group.”

“We were observing, but we were also disrupting just by being there, three thousand miles into the North Pacific. No one really enforces the quotas set up by the International Whaling Commission. And of course, the conservatives think efforts to save species is all a waste of time.”