What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (32 page)

“Always.”

Zack pressed the “end” button and put the phone in the center console. The sun hung lower now, and Highway 1 rejoined the 101 South.
All I want tonight is a quiet evening. And maybe … maybe a quick call to Milford-Haven
.

Joseph Calvin replaced the phone in its cradle. Though he felt the call had ended abruptly, he’d learned long ago to let go of such petty annoyances where Zack was concerned. Their friendship—their closeness—meant more to him than that.

Milford-Haven. What memories that brings back!
Joan had always loved it there—had begged him to go with her house-hunting. Something small, she’d said, something simple. Some place to escape to: far enough away to keep him out of the immediate reach of the office—and yet not so far that he’d feel he was being irresponsible. “A place to feed the soul,” she’d called it.

She’d worked with a broker over several months, meticulously searching for the perfect place. She’d been nonchalant when she found it—not wanting to overwhelm him with her own enthusiasm.

I see that now, how careful she was of my feelings. But I didn’t see it then. I was angry, belligerent. I’d built her a mansion in Santa Barbara, after all, and she acted as though it wasn’t
enough for her
.

She wanted more. Another house! He saw only another drain on energy and resources, a needless expense, a place they’d never use, one more thing to worry about.
Perhaps she never wanted the mansion. Perhaps what she really wanted all along was a small, simple place by the sea
.

Though he’d agreed to look at the place she found, he’d turned it down flat, disconcerting the realtor, shocking his wife. The drive back home to Santa Barbara that Sunday night was tense and sullen. Joan looked out the window the whole ride, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. He tried to explain, and she listened with no reply. He understood only later the depth of her disappointment.
Too little, too late
.

Shoving away the memory, Joseph pushed his large leather chair back from his desk and stood.
James is off tonight, and Zack isn’t free for dinner. I’ll have to fix myself something
. He pulled down on the edges of his cashmere sweater and headed for the main kitchen. His Kenneth Cole loafers thudded on the terra cotta tiles as he passed through the serving area.

Entering the spacious kitchen, he couldn’t help responding to its comforting decor: the gleaming Mauviel copper pots, the back splashes of blue-white-and-yellow
talavera
Mexican tiles. The warmth and whimsy of their hand-drawn designs offset the cool, functional elegance of the room.

On the center island he found a note in James’s familiar handwriting:

Mr. C—There’s a plate of chicken breasts marsala and fettucini alfredo in second refrigerator. Place plate in microwave and press Reheat, 120°. Also see salad on lower shelf. Dressing in small white pitcher
.—J

James—ever thoughtful—had left him one of his favorite meals, fully prepared.
That recipe … the chicken Marsala, another thing Joan taught Joseph how to make…
. His mouth began watering at the thought. Though relieved dinner would be such a simple matter, still, he found himself mildly annoyed.
Attempting to cook would’ve kept my mind occupied for at least another hour
.

He pressed the prescribed buttons and sat on the nearest rattan-and-wrought-iron barstool, glancing through the carefully stacked array of daily newspapers James had arranged.
Wall Street Journal
on top as always.
Financial Times of London. Barrons. Shipping News. Herald Tribune
. Then the magazines:
The Economist. U.S. News & World Report
. His eye went back to the pink newspaper.
Joan always called the Financial Times the “pretty” paper because of its color. I should read the Foreign News page of the FT, check the news on that oil spill…yes, here it is
.

Milford Haven, Wales:
The Liberian-flagged, Russian-crewed 147,000 ton oil tanker,
Sea Empress grounded
on the rocks in the mouth of Milford Haven. In the six days it has required to free the tanker, 73,450 tons of oil have leaked from the tanker. This is the third largest oil spill to have occurred in UK waters.

Another Milford Haven … ironic that both towns by that name should be mentioned on the same day
. He wondered if the Welsh town was still as beautiful and pristine as its California counterpart—a fact that would make the spill all the more tragic. He shuddered to imagine what the consequences would be if one of his own partners’ tankers were caught on rocks … fouling the coastline, despoiling the wildlife, creating a public relations nightmare.

His bad mood worsening, he put down the unfinished paper and returned to the carefully arranged kitchen counter. Noticing the tray James had left out for him—preset with flatware, plate and glass—he waited for the microwave to beep. Then he placed the steaming food on the fine china, poured himself a short glass of Chablis, and headed for the large comfortable den adjoining the kitchen.

This, too, had been Joan’s idea—a design that would keep her connected with the family while she prepared meals. Cooking had been one of her passions. She’s even studied at the
Cordon Bleu
in Paris. Later, she’d taught James well.

Joseph clicked the TV remote and watched absently as the CNN reporter held forth on matters of interest in Tel Aviv. Switching to Chris’s station, Joseph thought,
If I can’t see the woman in person, I can at least see her regular feature on the box
.

“Our special report is next,” announced the unseen voice. Joseph took several bites while the endless local commercials scrolled through. “So unprofessionally produced,” Chris always complained. “If they’re spending all this money on the media buy, why in blazes don’t they hire decent advertising firms?”
Her pet peeve
.

Joseph took a swallow of Chablis and refocused as the program resumed. There he was, Chris’s cohort, the news anchor who introduced her each Friday evening.
Handsome devil
, Joseph thought with a twinge of jealousy.

“Nothing animates the face,” Chris had insisted. “He’s not a real reporter—just a talking head.”

“Since Chris Christian has the night off, we’re bringing you a special report by yours truly.”

Joseph sat up straight.
The night off? What the hell? Where
is
she? She must be seeing someone else and hasn’t the decency to tell me
. Joseph put his tray aside and strode away from the TV, the anchor still blathering his report. Joseph began to pace. He should’ve known better than ever to begin dating a woman twenty years younger.

What’s the matter with you
? he chided himself.
You’re a fool! All that talk about deadlines and crazy schedules … she was setting you up, idiot! Trying to cushion you, knowing there’d be a fall
.

Samantha Hugo paced her cramped living room, marching to and fro along the back of the sofa. The events of the day had her in thrall.

Though her conversation with Susan had been daunting, Sam still felt it’d gone well. And she’d reduced her mountain of work—if not to a mole hill—at least to a more manageable mound.

Susan. Work. They’re not bothering me at the moment. It’s that message I left at the Chernak Agency. They’d return the call “promptly” their outgoing message had said. Well, this isn’t prompt to my way of thinking
.

Though she’d accomplished some real work at the office today—particularly by generating a follow-up list based on her Coastal Commission notes—still, with half an ear, she’d listened all day for the return phone call. Irritated when it didn’t come—even though she’d stayed after hours—she’d finally locked up the office come home, promising herself she’d tackle her stack of reading.

But with the evening upon her, she felt too agitated to read and too unsettled to relax.
I had no idea one phone call would churn up so many emotions. I thought these were processed long ago but look how they’ve grabbed my attention
.

The Art Nouveau clock chimed seven times.
How could an hour have passed since I got home? I certainly have nothing to show for it
. She could ill afford to waste what precious time she had away from the office.

At one end of her short walk, the kitchen counter serving as her desk seemed to groan under the weight of papers and files stacked too high to remain secure. She gazed at the piles, unable to tackle them.

It’s dinner time. I should eat something
. Stepping to her refrigerator, she opened it and surveyed its contents.
A half-eaten apple. The remnants of a salad. A head of red cabbage. Four bottles of cranberry juice. Two yogurts
.

She slammed the door, badly rattling the contents of the refrigerator door. Wincing, she stood undecided in the middle of the floor.

Writing in my journal is one of the few things that helps a mood like this. But I’ve promised myself a nice long session tomorrow morning. And besides, I’m too hungry, now, not to eat. But what? And where?

Walking quickly to her bedroom, she pulled on her heavy cableknit sweater and dashed a comb through her hair.
I could get something to go. Maybe a crab salad. That’d suit my crabby mood perfectly. I could bring it here and zone out in front of the television
.

Grabbing her shoulder bag, she walked out her front door, slammed the door of her Jeep Cherokee, turned her key in the
ignition, and started for the Main Street Grill.

Joseph had managed—though still upset about Chris—to choke down the excellent dinner left for him. Now he took his tray into the kitchen and restrained himself from hurling his plate into the stainless steel sink.

Damn! It’s not worth feeling excited by some young thing if this kind of stress and upset came with the package!

He considered his options: jump into his car and roar up the highway; write Chris a curt letter; pour himself a stiff drink and lay low.

He chose the latter. Now the challenge was to peel himself off the ceiling; calm himself down; refocus on work, the estate, charity events, all the tasks and responsibilities cluttering his agenda book.

Walking into his office, he yanked the chair out of the way and stood at his desk. Staring at his brown leather planner, he flipped it open and glanced at the pages full of meetings, notes, lists, phone calls.

He reread tomorrow’s schedule—a habit he’d cultivated years earlier as a means of preparing for the next business day. Automatically, he reran the facts and background on the people he and Zack would be meeting, prioritized which items would need his attention first. Calmer now, he sat down and flipped to the previous day, recalling what he’d done, the calls he’d made and received.

And then he began leafing methodically backwards, slowly reviewing the past several days, until he came to a brief memo:
Dinner with Chris
. Seemed innocuous enough.
Important
enough for me to write it down. But apparently not important enough for her to show up
. He turned back still further.