Cabin by the Lake (12 page)

Lydia was shocked. How did he know? Was she going to be fired? Color flooded her cheeks. This was so not fair! How should she handle this?

“Mr. Lincoln,” she said, the words tumbling out. “I can assure you that I have done nothing to encourage Ace’s attention. If you’re not satisfied with my work, that’s one thing, but—”

“No, we have been very pleased with your work, Lydia. You’re doing a good job,” he assured her.

She felt as if she might cry at any moment. She tried again. “I understand that Ace is a partner here and I’m just a receptionist, but I… I…” and then the tears came. “I thought my past mistakes were to be kept in confidence, Mr. Lincoln. I don’t understand how you could have been so kind as to give me this job and a chance to start over, and then rip it out of my grasp by telling people about me.”

He took a clean folded handkerchief from his jacket pocket and passed it over the desk, for which she was very grateful. What a bad idea this had all been. It seemed that she did nothing but cry lately—was she twelve and just starting puberty with raging hormones?—and she hated crying! She hated that she had ever come here!

“You misunderstand,” he said in his steady voice. “It seems that Ace helped himself to my private personnel files, and found out the information on his own. I’m very sorry about that. As I was saying, we are aware of what has been happening to you, and we want to make this problem go away as quietly as possible.”

“You’re firing me,” she said dully. She straightened her back, preparing herself for the inevitable news. Fine. There were more ways than one to start over.

“No, no,” he said. There was a knock at the door. “Come in.”

A woman Lydia had seen around the office stepped inside and handed him an envelope.

“Thank you, Carol.” Before Carol could close the door behind her, Deuce came in with a folder in his hand.

“Sit down, Deuce. I was just telling Lydia that this little problem that Ace has created will not affect her in a negative way.”

Deuce’s pudgy face was ruddy with embarrassment. “I’m sorry for my brother’s behavior,” he said to Lydia. “I’m just glad this came to our attention before—”

Mr. Lincoln cleared his throat. “You have the contract?”

“Yes, right here,” said Deuce, handing it over.

Mr. Lincoln opened the folder and inspected the document inside. He then laid it on the desk and slid it in front of Lydia. “This is, in short, a confidentiality agreement,” he said. “By signing it, you agree to not speak to anyone about Ace’s inappropriate behavior, and we agree to compensate you for your trouble.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You’re buying me off?”

Mr. Lincoln steepled his fingers under his chin. “That’s not what we would call it,” he said, “but yes. We need time to handle this delicate situation, and if you would agree to take a little vacation, we would be grateful.”

“So you
are
firing me,” she said, confused.

“Not at all. When this matter is resolved—and I don’t believe it will take too long—then you are of course welcome to resume your normal work schedule.” He slid the envelope across the desk and indicated that she should open it.

She picked it up hesitantly and pulled out a check written out to her. Her lips formed a soundless O when she saw the amount.

He smiled. “Yes, it is substantial. But we hope you will feel that you have been compensated for the uncomfortable position in which you found yourself. Of course, your usual paycheck will continue to be direct-deposited into your account during your, um, leave of absence.”

She looked from him to Deuce, and around to Betsy, unable to keep the amazement from her face. 

“We plan to have this taken care of in a timely manner,” he continued. “But, as you can see in Paragraph VI, if this matter is not resolved within two months, we will meet again and revisit the question of further compensation.”

Deuce handed her a pen. “If you would just sign here, our business is completed.”

She signed the document, almost in a daze. How could this have turned around so quickly? Then she thought of something. “If I’m not supposed to tell anyone about Ace, how will I explain not going to work?”

Betsy looked at the two men, and then held up one finger. She got up and opened a cabinet, taking out a briefcase containing a small laptop computer. “You’ve just been promoted to Head of Research,” she said. “You can say you’ll be working from home for now while we get an office space cleared for you. Yes?” she questioned Mr. Lincoln.

“Excellent idea,” he agreed, looking very pleased. He rose with a screech of his chair and took a bewildered Lydia by the arm. “Feel free to contact any of the three of us at any time,” he said. “We are at your disposal. Meanwhile, have a nice vacation. Deuce will escort you out.”

She impulsively hugged the older man, feeling on the verge of tears again. She
had
to get these emotions under control. But this was almost too good to be true. She’d gone from the depths of despair to the heights of new hope in a matter of minutes.

On the drive home, she tried to process everything that happened. Her problem with Ace Colbert had been resolved. She now had more money than she’d ever had at any point in her life—probably small beans to some people, but not to her. Suddenly it occurred to her that she was now free to work on the cabin. With Mike.

She started laughing out loud at the crazy turn of events. Never in her wildest dreams would she have predicted this outcome. Maybe her luck was turning around. Good things seemed to be happening, and she was heady with her good fortune.

As far as Mike was concerned, his feelings were clear. If he wanted to just be friends, she could be his friend. And she planned to enjoy the heck out of it while she had the chance!

It was still early afternoon when Lydia arrived home. There was no sign of Vivian or Dog, so she deposited her new laptop on the desk upstairs and quickly changed into her old Daisy Dukes and a t-shirt. The day had turned warm and she felt as if she’d been let out of school early. Spring was definitely in the air today, and her feet fairly flew along the path to the cabin.

As she expected, Vivian was there, ordering Mike around like a wayward child. “Higher,” she was saying. “Lift it a little bit higher on the right.”

They were both startled when she walked in, and Mike lowered the shelving he had been holding up for Vivian’s inspection.

“What are you doing home so early?” Vivian asked.

She extended her arms in an elaborate shrug. “I got a promotion,” she said, grinning.

Vivian and Mike exchanged a confused look. “What did you get promoted to, and how does that translate into getting the afternoon off?” he asked.

“I’m the new head of the Research Department, and I’m going to be working from home for a while until they get my office ready.” She looked from one to the other to see how that story would fly.

“Congratulations!” Vivian shouted, giving her a hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” she replied, thinking that had gone well. Time to change the subject. She rubbed her hands together, ready for work. “So where are we? What are you guys doing? What can I do?”

Mike laughed at her enthusiasm. “Well, Ms. Head of the Research Department, are you up for a little sanding?”

“I’m up for it,” she said, still a little giddy from her unexpected good fortune.

“I’m glad you’re here to take my place,” Vivian said. “I’ve got groceries to buy, and this guy’s a slave driver.”

He laughed. “I think you’ve got that backwards. Go, buy your groceries, and maybe I can take a break.”

As Vivian left, Dog at her heels, Lydia followed him out to the yard where sawhorses were set up. The cabinet doors were lined up, numbered on the back, and ready for refinishing. She picked up a piece of sandpaper and began vigorously sanding one of the doors in a wide circular motion.

“Hang on,” he said, coming up behind her. He put one hand on her waist and the other hand over hers, and showed her how to move the sandpaper back and forth instead of in circles. “You want to sand with the grain of the wood, not against it,” he explained. “Like this.” He moved her hand the length of the cabinet and back with long, smooth strokes.

“Oh, I get it,” she said. “Makes sense.” What didn’t make sense was how much her body came alive as his hand lingered on hers. She could smell the fresh, clean scent of soap as he stood close against her back, his breath on her cheek as he spoke over her shoulder. She felt a little dizzy at his nearness.

Friends,
she reminded herself.
We’re just friends.

“I’ve got it now,” she said, breathless.

He moved away, seemingly unaware of the effect he had on her. He picked up an electric sander and held it out. “How do you feel about power tools?”

“I’m game.” She took the sander, willing her hands not to tremble, and examined it.

“Just keep it moving,” he warned. “Not too long in one spot.” He pointed to the power switch and she was off and running.

For a long while she contentedly sanded while Mike was inside hammering together the kitchen island. This was not rocket science, she decided, and it felt good as she removed the layers of grease and dirt to reveal the clean wood beneath. When she turned off the sander, he came out with two Cokes in his hand. “Ready for a break?”

“Sure.” The drink was ice-cold. “It’s amazing that refrigerator still works,” she said, sitting down in the shade beneath the big live oak.

“Yeah, they don’t make ’em like they used to,” he agreed. “Speaking of the fridge, it does still work, it’s vintage, and it has a lot of character. Vivian says she wants to keep it.”

She nodded. “It’s got some rust going on, but we can paint it, right?”

“They make good appliance paint now. It would be an easy fix. In fact, we could take it down to an automobile paint shop. They would give it a more professional look than we could, and I’m thinking a nice glossy finish would make it the highlight of that kitchen. What color do you think? White?”

“Red.”

“Red?”

“Yeah, red could be the accent color for the whole place.”

He took a long drink, thinking about it. Finally, he said, “I can see it. Not too much red, just here and there.”

“Right, like the old light fixture hanging over the table, we could re-paint that, as well,” she said, getting excited.

He raised his Coke bottle in a salute. “I believe you have the eye of a decorator.”

“Hmm, a decorator,” she said, tapping her chin with her finger, pretending to think hard about that one. “Now that would be a cushy job I could sink my teeth into.” She adopted a terrible French accent and said, “Oh, madam, ze plaid vill not go with ze stripe fabric! You simply must use ze solid fabric unless you vant to end up with shabby chic, and zat was sooo yesterday.”

“What kind of accent was that?” he asked, laughing.

She grinned. “I was trying for French, but whatever mishmash of language that was, it would be smarmy enough to get paid the big design bucks.”

“It sounds like you have some experience with decorators.”

“Oh yes, my mother was always redecorating the house. And she went through decorators faster than she went through husbands. A new husband, a new house, equaled all new décor. I guess you can’t help but absorb some of that talk they throw around. It always looked easy to me, but the hours my mother and her decorators spent trying to decide on precisely the correct shade of peach were mindboggling.”

“So what shade of red are you going with?” he teased.

She sliced her hand decisively through the air. “Red. Not burgundy or brick or cherry or apple or ruby or crimson or rust or scarlet or wine. Just red.”

“Wow,” he said in awe. “I didn’t know there were so many choices.”

“Yes, and the list goes on,” she laughed. “I guess that’s why people need decorators; there are too many choices.”

He stood up and offered her a hand. She clasped on and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, this time ignoring the heat that went up her arm at his touch.

“Now that we’ve established the accent color—red—it’s time to get back to work. How are you coming on the sanding?”

“It’s going well.” She picked up a cabinet door and held it out for his inspection. “The wood is pretty underneath, so it could be stained.”

“Nice,” he agreed.

“But I’ve been thinking.”

He rolled his eyes. “Uh-oh, the decorator in you has been unleashed.”

She elbowed him. “No really, listen. With the log walls in there being so dark, and the dark cabinets, why don’t we do a mix? We could paint the upper cabinets a light cream color—maybe distress them—and leave the lower ones stained. The island could also be painted. I mean, the wood around the island isn’t going to match the cabinets anyway, is it?”

“No, you’ve got a point there,” he said, rubbing his hand across the smooth wooden surface. “And if we make the concrete countertops a cream color also, that would really lighten the place up.”

She impulsively clapped her hands in joy and jumped up and down, her pony tail swinging behind her back. “I can’t wait!” she cried. “This is going to be so great!”

He laughed along with her. He couldn’t help himself. Her sheer happiness that spilled through in odd moments like this—like when they were giving Dog a bath—made him want to fix anything that could possibly be wrong in her life that made her so reserved at times. He loved her laugh and the way it spontaneously burst out of her. Not what he was used to at all.

“Back to work,” he ordered, grinning.

“Whatever you say, boss man.” She loaded the sander with a fresh piece of sandpaper and attacked the cabinets with renewed vigor, humming under her breath as she worked.

Lydia was correct in her prediction; she
was
enjoying the heck out of being around Mike. It was probably childish of her to think that his kiss had meant anything. They were adults. She supposed things like a romantic kiss meant nothing to most adults.

She reasoned that her emotional growth had perhaps been stunted along the way, but she was determined to catch up now. She needed a more sophisticated way of thinking.

A kiss was just a kiss. That’s all. She wished it were otherwise with him, but right now she would take Mike, the friend, and be content. He never had to know that his very touch made her knees weak. Some people were just not destined to find true love, to have a family and live happily ever after. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t take one day at a time and be happy. Like today. Today she was as happy as it was possible for her to be.

Her shoulders and arms were aching when she finally shut off the sander and inspected her work. She was pleased with the work she had done, and proud of herself. She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a dirty smear, and noticed a woman approaching on the shoreline path from the house. She looked to be about her own age, but highly overdressed for a walk in the woods.

The woman spotted Lydia and waved. Lydia waved back and waited while she approached, teetering on high heels as she made her way across the clearing.

“Excuse me,” she said. “That woman at the house told me I would find Mike Rodgers here.”

Lydia’s interest was piqued. “Mike?” she called. The hammering from inside the cabin ceased and he appeared in the doorway. A look of disbelief instantly crossed his face. “Kendall! What are you doing here?”

“There you are,” Kendall said, sounding delighted and not a bit put off by the look on his face. She passed by Lydia without a glance and climbed the steps to the porch. She reached out to hug him, hesitated at the sight of dirt and sawdust clinging to his clothes, and settled for clasping his face in her hands and kissing him full on the mouth. “I’ve missed you,” she gushed.

He took Kendall’s wrists and pulled her hands away from his face, jerking his head to the side.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she cooed. “I’ve come a long way to find you. Aren’t you just a little bit glad to see me?” She ducked her head and coyly batted her eyelashes at him.

Lydia would bet the farm that those eyelashes were false, along with a few other fake things.

He was angry at the sight of Kendall Riley, here. He had given Gordy, his long-time personal assistant, Vivian’s address so he could mail the paperwork he needed, but no one else in the world was supposed to know of his whereabouts. He knew Gordy was loyal, and he trusted him with his life. So how did Kendall find him?

His lips felt wooden as he attempted to speak in a normal voice. “Kendall, what are you doing here?”

“I brought you this,” she said, digging a manila envelope out of her purse. “I just happened to be at the office when I saw Gordy put this in the outgoing mail. And there was the address, just as if fate meant for me to see it.”

He scowled and took the envelope from her.

“What choice did you give me? I had to snoop,” she said, exaggerated hurt in her voice. “You just left! Nobody knew where you were, and I was so worried about you. Everybody thought—”

“Lydia,” he interrupted, stopping Kendall’s flow of words, “this is a friend of mine, Kendall Riley. Kendall, this is Lydia Steadman.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Lydia, not sure what to make of Kendall Riley.

Kendall looked at Lydia and gave her a dismissive smile. “How do you do,” she said coldly.

She turned her attention back to Mike. “Let’s let your helper get back to work,” she said, sending her a dismissive smile. “We can step into this, um, shack and talk in private.”

Lydia felt the anger inside her explode like a volcano erupting. Helper? Shack? She was suddenly aware of how she must appear: dirty, sweaty, old cut-offs and a t-shirt, wearing flip-flops that had seen better days. And Miss Money Bags up there with her flippy little pink skirt and her chic jean jacket with the sleeves rolled up and her bangle bracelets clinking, pawing all over Mike. How dare she!

Mike took one look at Lydia’s face and grasped Kendall by the elbow, ushering her into the cabin. He tried to close the door but there was a sawhorse in the way and before he could move it, Lydia was leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, clearly interested in their conversation.

Kendall looked around, disgusted by what she saw. “Is this some kind of charity work that you’re doing?”

“I’m helping out a friend,” he replied coldly.

“Can’t we go back to your hotel room and talk about this? You can get cleaned up and we’ll go out and have a nice dinner.”

“There is no hotel room. I’m staying here.”

She was taken aback. “What? You mean you’re actually sleeping here?” she said with a disdainful sweep of her arm, shocked beyond her comprehension. “I don’t understand. Are you on some kind of mission trip to help the hillbillies or something?”

Lydia sprang upright from her slouch against the doorjamb. “Oh no, you did not just say that!”