Forever Spring (3 page)

Feeling like the idiot she’d accused herself of being, Karen spun away from the dresser, unwilling to face the sad-eyed woman reflected in the mirror above it. She had work to do. There was laundry in the dryer to be folded, and a wet load waiting to be transferred to it from the washer. She had to scrub potatoes for baking and clean and chop vegetables for a salad. She had to make a batch of biscuits. She didn’t have time to indulge in fantasies about a man she had met less than two hours before and knew absolutely nothing about. She had to get her house and head together.

Acting on the thought, Karen rushed from her bedroom and down the wide staircase. She flicked on the radio in the kitchen on her way through to the laundry room. Throughout the following hours, coherent thought was held at bay by the blaring racket and agonizing screams commonly referred to as “heavy metal.”

Karen had a blasting headache, but her chores—and the potatoes—were done. She had showered and dressed in a silky overblouse and a flattering, if practical, denim skirt. Her hair was brushed into soft gleaming waves; a minimum of makeup enhanced her clear, naturally pale face. The table was set in the small dining alcove and the scallops were simmering in an aromatic sauterne butter sauce under the broiler. The noise issuing from the radio ceased abruptly. Spinning around, Karen glared at the tall, too-attractive cause of her feverish activity.

“Why did you do that?” she demanded aggressively, quickly gliding a glance over the appeal of his body, which was clad in casual but obviously expensive pants and a white sweater.

“Why?” Paul repeated in disbelief. “To prevent both deafness and madness,” he answered in a scathing tone. “I was beginning to think I’d walked into bedlam.”

“The music keeps me company,” she retorted.

“It’ll turn your brain to mush,” he snapped. “I thought you were an intelligent, sensible woman. You can’t possibly enjoy that... that..

“Noise?” Karen supplied the applicable word, sighing inwardly at her erratic behavior. “No, actually I hate it.”

“But then why play it?” Paul slowly crossed the room to her.

Karen held her ground but withdrew inwardly. “Because I was dissatisfied with my own thoughts,” she admitted. “And the noise blanked them out.” Compassion softened his tight features. “You were thinking about your children?” he asked softly.

Feeling not an ounce of shame, Karen clutched at the excuse. “Yes, I was missing my children.” There was a grain of truth to her assertion, she assured herself, meeting his compassionate gaze boldly. For had her boys been in the house that afternoon, she probably wouldn’t have been sitting on the beach and so would not have met him and thus would not have found herself wildly attracted to him in the first place. The rationale was unpalatable to Karen, but it was the best she could come up with on the spur of the moment.

Chapter Two

"You do a mean scallop scampi.”

“Thank you.” Karen glanced up at Paul, an uncertain smile hovering at the corners of her lips. The compliment, coming so unexpectedly after his neartotal silence during the meal, both pleased and confused her. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I did,” he said, pausing a moment before continuing, “I enjoyed it very much, even though I realize I wasn’t very good company throughout the consumption of it.”

Karen lifted her shoulders in a half shrug. “Conversation is not a guest requirement.”

Paul smiled. “Perhaps it should be.”

“Perhaps.” Karen frowned and shrugged again. “But if a guest is preoccupied...”

“This particular guest is preoccupied by speculation about his hostess.”

“Me!” she exclaimed, experiencing an odd thrill of excitement.

“Yes, you.” Refilling his coffee cup from the carafe she’d placed on the table, Paul leaned back in his chair and gazed at her intently.

“But what about me?” Karen shook her head impatiently. “I mean, what were you speculating about?”

“The fact that you’re living alone in this large house, for one thing,” Paul answered, indicating the entire building with a flick of his hand.

Karen followed his hand motion with her eyes. “I was born in this house,” she murmured.

“Which explains absolutely nothing.”

“I wasn’t aware of owing—” she began, her voice strained.

Paul interrupted her. “Of course you don’t owe me a thing, especially explanations, but that doesn’t preclude my curiosity about you.” He shrugged and smiled; the smile got to her.

“Okay, I’ll indulge your curiosity.” Karen inclined her head in thanks as he filled her coffee cup. Cradling the warmed china in her palms, she sat back and smiled. “Fire away.”

Paul’s lips curved with wry amusement and a hint of suggestiveness. “On any subject?”

“I won’t guarantee an answer,” Karen drawled, “but you can give it your best shot.”

His laughter was slow in starting but rapidly grew into an attractive rumble that filled the small dining alcove, and Karen, with warmth. The room absorbed the sound, and so did Karen. A delicious tremor shivered through her as he raised his cup in a salute.

“Now I’m intimidated.” Paul sounded anything but intimidated. He chuckled at the look she gave him. “I don’t know if this is my best shot, but to begin, why are you all alone in this large leftover from another era?”

That one was easy, and Karen responded immediately. “Actually, I’ve only been alone for a few weeks. I employ three people, two women and one man, during the season.” She smiled dryly. “In fact, the house is, or was, in effect closed until spring.”

“But the proprietor of that store said—”

Karen cut in to ask gently, “Exactly what did Calvin say?”

Paul frowned in concentration. “He said, well, just maybe you’d be willing to rent me a room for a night or two.” Paul mimicked Calvin’s Yankee twang.

Karen laughed in appreciation of his effort. “Precisely. Calvin knows full well that I close the place at the end of September, and he admitted as much.” “You spoke to him?”

Karen nodded. “While I was finishing dinner. I did tell you he’d persist until he reached me.”

“Yes, you did,” Paul confirmed, beginning to frown. “So, what’s your verdict?” His dark eyebrows peaked. “Are you planning to toss me out on my, er... ear the minute I step away from this table, or have you decided to let me stay the night?”

“You may stay—” she paused to grin “—as long as you like. It appears that you made quite a good impression on Calvin.”

“Indeed?” Paul managed not to laugh.

“Oh, yes, indeed.” Karen didn’t manage it; she laughed softly. “And, as Calvin is generally an excellent judge of character, I’ll accept his recommendation.”

“I knew there was something I liked about that dour-faced, hard-nosed Yankee,” Paul commented drolly.

Swallowing her laughter at his deadly accurate description of Calvin, Karen pushed back her chair and stood up. “Question period over?” she murmured hopefully, beginning to gather the dishes together.

“Over!” Paul exclaimed, rising quickly to help clear the table. “I’ve only asked one question.”

“Well, then,” she sighed loudly, “can we put it on hold until after cleaning up? I detest clutter.” She frowned at the littered table.

“Certainly.” Paul nodded. “I’ll even assist.” His gaze trailed hers to the table, and his mouth curved into a grimace. “I can’t abide clutter, either.”

Oddly, knowing they shared one small trait made Karen feel closer to Paul. And, though she told herself she was being silly, the feeling eased the reluctance she was experiencing about being questioned further by him.

Two pairs of competent hands dealt swiftly with the dinner debris, freeing them of the chore within minutes. With the dishwasher swishing in the background, Paul opened the bottle of white wine Karen produced, while she retrieved two stemmed glasses from the lovingly cared-for hundred-year-old hutch in the formal dining room. Carrying the bottle casually by its long neck, Paul strolled into the spacious living room; Karen followed after giving the kitchen one last critical appraisal.

Ensconced in a wide-armed, deeply cushioned easy chair, Paul offered Karen a wry smile as she settled into the corner of the matching sofa. As he poured out the wine, he put her own thoughts into words.

“It would appear that we have at least one thing in common,” he said. “We are both apparently overly tidy people.”

Karen’s smile matched his in wryness. “Why do I get the sneaky feeling that you’ve also been accused of being a fussbudget?”

The bottle went still, poised over the glass. The stream of clear liquid ceased flowing. Paul slowly raised his gaze to meet hers. The light of impish humor glowed in the dark depths of his eyes.

“You, too, huh?” When Karen nodded, he grinned. “My daughter Nicole once told me that though I wasn’t exactly clean-crazy, I most definitely was straighten-up-nuts.”

Karen’s laugh of delight rippled through the room, adding a dimension of comfort unrelated to the bright down-home decor. “I think I’d like your Nicole,” she said when the amusement subsided. “She sounds like fun.”

“She is now, because she’s happy.” Paul’s expression was somber. “But there was a period, a very long period, when she seemed barely alive, never mind fun.”

There was no way Karen could let his statement pass. Reaching to accept the glass he held out to her, she voiced her interest. “There was a time when your daughter was unhappy?” For some inexplicable reason, she couldn’t imagine a child of Paul’s being unhappy—which was really silly, Karen knew. Most children suffered periods of unhappiness for one reason or another.

Paul’s hesitation was brief but telling. He obviously didn’t want to discuss his daughter. “Nicole was involved in an auto accident some years ago,” he said finally. “She withdrew from life, from her family, while she worked out the aftereffects of the damage.” The minute emphasis he placed on the words
her family
spoke volumes about his own worry and anxiety during that period.

“She was handicapped?” Karen asked softly, even as she told herself to let it go.

“She was a model,” Paul said slowly. “A rather famous model. The crash left her face, neck and shoulder scarred.” His tone, or rather the complete lack of it, revealed much about the anguish he’d felt at the time.

Still, Karen couldn’t let the subject drop; she had to ask. “But she’s all right now?”

Paul’s lips curved into a gentle, contented smile. “Yes, she’s more than all right. Nicole’s not only happy, she is deeply in love with her husband.” Parental Tove and pride glowed from his softened dark eyes.

“I’m glad,” Karen said, simply but with utter sincerity. “And your son?” She was completely aware that the roles of questioner and questionee had been neatly reversed; she hoped to keep it that way. A small smile teased her lips as the glow brightened in his eyes. It was obvious to Karen that Paul unconditionally adored his son. Being in the same emotional condition concerning her own boys, she could appreciate the pride shining from his eyes.

“My son Peter is—special.” Paul went still as his eyes widened fractionally. “Good Lord!” he muttered.

“What?” Even though his voice had been low, the tone of it affected Karen like a shout. “What is it?” she asked, glancing around as if she expected to see a visible cause for his distress.

Paul gave a sharp shake of his head. “I told Peter I’d call him this evening.” He sighed. “And now I’ve very likely got both Peter and his wife Patricia worried.”

Not quite understanding his agitation, Karen motioned toward the hallway. “There’s a phone less than ten feet away from you in the hall. Be my guest.” Paul’s expression changed instantly. A teasing gleam sprang into his eyes to banish the shadow of concern. “It’s a long-distance call. My son lives in Philadelphia.”

Karen sipped her wine daintily before responding in a dry tone. “I’m in an expansive mood.” She indicated the foyer with a negligent wave. “Better take advantage of it. It doesn’t happen often.”

“You’re a bit austere with the purse strings?” “Nooo...” Karen drew the word out slowly. “I’m a true product of my New England upbringing and
very
austere with the purse strings.” Her soft lips tightened. “It was one of the biggest bones of contention between me and Charles.”

“Charles?” That one softly spoken word from Paul reversed the roles again.

Karen sighed into her delicate glass and took a deep, fortifying swallow. “Charles Mitchell.”

“Your former husband?”

She nodded once, then attempted to deflect the question she could see hovering on his lips. “Aren’t you going to make that call?”

Paul’s slow smile sent Karen’s hopes crashing down in flames. “It’ll keep until morning. So will Peter. I’ll catch him at the office.”

She gave it one last shot. “But you said they’ll worry.”

“They’re used to it.” His drawl was heavy. “They’ve been angsting over me for nearly six months. Another night won’t make much difference either way.”

His enigmatic statement sank a solid hook into Karen’s already aroused interest in him. She wanted to know everything, anything, about him. Paul didn’t allow her the seconds needed to sort her queries into a semblance of order.

“You were telling me about Charles,” he said, scattering her thoughts.

“I was?” She gulped at her wine and suddenly the glass was empty. Frowning at it, she held it out for refilling.

“Well, no,” Paul admitted, tipping the bottle over her glass. “But I was hoping you would.” Topping off his own glass, he lounged in the roomy chair and offered her a bland, innocent look.

Karen wasn’t fooled for an instant; but she did feel inordinately thirsty. After several more deep swallows of the wine, her tongue loosened considerably. “What exactly did you hope to find out?” She didn’t hear the fuzzy sound of her voice, but Paul did. He fought the urge to smile.

“Would it be terribly crass of me to admit to hoping to hear the entire story?”

“Terribly,” Karen muttered into her glass before taking another gulp. “But as I said, I’m in a strange, expansive mood tonight.”

Not to mention slightly into your cups.
Paul decided Karen was both cute and attractive with her Yankee edges blurred, but prudently kept his thoughts to himself. “Then I’ll be crass and ask for the story, from the beginning.”