It's a Wonderful Wife (4 page)

Jesse stopped in mid-sentence when he pulled out a second,
empty
wine bottle, holding it up as he silently arched a brow at her again.

“It was a long ride,” she muttered, somehow managing to look both guilty and indignant as she flopped back against the couch. “Were you in a contest to see how many potholes you could hit, or did the dealership just hand you a driver's license with that fancy truck?”

For some unfathomable reason, Jesse found Miss Glace in a drunken snit to be the most appealing of all, which sent his mind wandering in a totally inappropriate direction—the fact he couldn't get Wagner's
Tannhäuser
out of his head probably not helping. But hell, it wasn't like he'd kidnapped the woman; she was the one who'd chosen to stow away in the camper of a man she'd spent the last three months getting to know
intimately
.

“So, about your plan for after you reached Castle Cove,” he said, standing up and walking back to the living area, his hope of a drink thwarted. He started to sit in the recliner in the opposite slide-out, but changed his mind and sat on the floor to lean against it facing her. “Are you intending to hide out here in town for a few days?”

“I can't,” she said, shaking her head. “Wiggles falls into a deep depression if she's left alone for more than twenty-four hours.”

“Wiggles?”

“My cat.”

“Surely Stanley will go home tonight.”

Apparently just hearing the bastard's name was enough to get her scowling again, even as she blinked in obvious confusion. “What's he got to do with—” Her eyes widened. “We don't
live
together. Stanley lives up over the office and I live in my parents' house.” She looked utterly scandalized. “And even if our engagement was real, we wouldn't live together without being
married
.”

Now Jesse was confused. “Are you saying you and Stanley aren't really engaged?”

She dropped her gaze and slowly started sliding the diamond ring up and down the fourth finger of her left hand, her bluster evaporating on a deep sigh. “It's only pretend,” she admitted softly. “Just like the stone in this ring.” She looked up. “We got engaged shortly after my father had his second heart attack over two years ago. Knowing Dad worried about my being alone if he died, Stanley and I hoped that telling him we were engaged might ease some of the stress on his heart.”

“And for the fourteen months since his death?” Jesse asked gently.

“Since everyone in town also believed the engagement was real, we decided to go on pretending until we could make it look like we simply fell out of love but could still be friends.”

“And it's taking over a year to fall out of fake love?”

“No, it's taking Stanley that long to find a new partner.” She snorted. “And for me to work up the nerve to finally leave Whistler's Landing.”

“And go where?” Jesse asked in surprise.

“Anywhere,” she muttered, stretching to reach the wine bottle, then lifting it to her mouth and tilting her head back in the apparent hope it had magically refilled.

Jesse remembered the other thing she'd said that had caught his attention. “So you wouldn't consider living with a man you're not married to?” he asked when she finally gave up and lowered the bottle. “I realize Whistler's Landing might be frozen in time, but surely you know this is the twenty-first century.”

That got him a derisive smile. “You try living in a small town full of people who are two and three generations older than you and not be old-fashioned. My parents tried having children early in their marriage without success, until my mother suddenly found herself pregnant at fifty-one years old.” She chuckled. “I got my driver's license the same day she got her first social security check in the mail.” But then her smile turned sad. “She died in her sleep when I was twenty. I left college to come home and be with Dad, and finished working on my degree by driving to the University of Maine in Machias three days a week.”

“A degree in architecture?”

She shook her head. “I'm not a detail person and would go insane if I had to spend hours hunched over a drafting table trying to decide where every light switch should go.”

Jesse arched a brow again. “You don't spend hours hunched over your models?”

“That's different,” she said with a shrug. “My dad realized early on that I visualized things three-dimensionally, which is why he decided to teach me to fabricate his models. When I'm building, it's like I'm actually walking around inside the house.” She shot him a smile. “Or traipsing all over a forested island.”

“So what is your degree in?”

Her smile went back to being derisive. “My original plan was to become a lawyer and set up shop in Ellsworth so I'd be close to my parents. But when Mom died, I switched from pre-law to environmental tourism when Dad suggested we could build a campground at the far end of our property to bring tourists to the area.”

“But now you've changed your mind and want to leave?”

“Well, yeah,” she said somewhat defensively. “It's not like anything is keeping me here anymore, and there's a whole world out there to explore.” The hint of a sparkle came into her eyes. “Do your overpaid captains leave your boats unlocked when they're tied up to the dock?”

“It's
ships
, not boats,” Jesse said, fighting a grin again. “And no, they don't. In fact, there are armed guards on board both in port and at sea. So you'd like to travel?” he asked, remembering his own parents often dropping him and his brothers off at Rosebriar, then hopping on whichever Tidewater ship was heading in the general direction they wanted to go.

Bram and Grammy Rose, however, preferred escaping on their Sengatti sloop.

“I want to at least
try
traveling,” she said, “rather than always wonder what I missed.”

Jesse found Miss Glace was getting more interesting by the minute, which made him want to probe deeper. “I can understand not living with a man you weren't married to out of respect for your parents, considering their ages, but that doesn't explain your still feeling the same way.” A thought suddenly struck him and, seeing how his somewhat drunk stowaway was being so talkative, Jesse decided to simply go ahead and ask. “Are you a virgin?”

Her jaw slackened—either in surprise that he'd asked or disbelief that he even thought she might be—just before she shot him a haughty glare. “I was away at college for two and a half years before I moved back home, and I'll have you know I had
lots
of boyfriends.”

“I'm sure you did,” he quietly agreed, imagining the college boys had also found those big blue eyes, bouncy blonde curls, and lovely curves appealing.

“I'm not a prude,” she insisted, her chin lifting as her cheeks filled with color again, “but I am discriminating. So who's to say what I'll do if—no,
when
I finally fall in real love.”

Lord, he bet she hated having such an expressive complexion.

“But I can't very well run around looking for Mr. Right,” she continued heatedly, “if I'm supposed to be engaged, now can I?”

“That didn't seem to be a problem for—” Jesse knew he hadn't checked his words in time when he saw her cheeks turn a blistering red just before she dropped her gaze. “I'm sorry. That was uncalled-for.” He stood up, feeling like a first-class jerk as he watched her slip off her fake engagement ring. “Do you have friends in Castle Cove you can stay with tonight?”

“No,” she whispered, staring at the ring she was now holding. “And I prefer to get a motel room anyway.”

Jesse didn't like the idea of her spending the night alone when she might be depressed and possibly just drunk enough to get in trouble. He crouched down beside her again. “Or, since I happen to have a camper that sleeps six, you could stay here.” He held up his hand in a Boy Scout's salute when her eyes snapped to his. “My word of honor, Miss Glace; I will be a perfect gentleman.” He blew out a heavy, exaggerated sigh. “And although it goes against company policy, I will also feed you.”

She rolled to her hands and knees again. “That's going to be kind of hard,” she said, grabbing the edge of the couch, “since all you've got in your cupboards are some weird spices and enough powdered Tang to keep a passel of kids hydrated all the way to Mars.” She straightened to her knees and scrunched up her nose. “Four-year-olds drink Tang.”

Jesse stood up with a snort. “Remind me to find a good hiding place for my checkbook,” he said, catching her by the shoulders and setting her on the couch when she nearly fell attempting to stand. “And I'm afraid you may have to take me up on my offer, because I'm pretty sure motels don't rent rooms to inebriated people,” he added as he straightened.

“Of course they do,” she shot back. “Why else do you think they always build them right next to bars?” Up went that haughty chin again. “And I'm not inebriated. I just haven't gotten my land legs back after that roller-coaster ride from hell.”

Jesse turned away so she wouldn't see his grin. “Well, you definitely were sober when you decided to stow away on that roller coaster.” He walked to the kitchen and put the corkscrew and clay and hat back in her purse, cracked the camper door enough to free it, then opened a drawer, pulled out a knife, and cut off all the balloon strings—releasing the sole survivor to float up to the ceiling. “So if I go get us a pizza or rotisserie chicken,” he said, walking over and setting the purse on the couch beside her, “will you promise to be here when I get back?”

“That would depend on whether or not you promise to also get a bottle of Moscato. Pink. Preferably bubbly.” The sparkle suddenly returned. “And feel free to get something for yourself.” She cocked her head. “My guess is you'll tolerate wine in social settings, but that you're really more of a Scotch, no ice, kind of guy. Single malt? Aged at least ten years?”

Jesse stilled in surprise. “Single cask,” he said quietly, “aged no less than twenty.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” she said as she started looking around the camper, only to stop long enough to flash him a smile. “Excuse me—your
ship
.” She bent over and ran her gaze along the slightly raised floor under the couch. “I really like the idea of these slide-outs,” she went on, seemingly to herself, as she straightened to study the slide-out on the opposite side of the camper. “They'd be cool in a house.” She looked at him, her eyebrows disappearing into her curls again. “Think of all the wonderful childhood memories a passel of kids would have if they grew up in a home that had moving walls.”

The woman was all over the place, her mood rising and falling more often than a real roller coaster, making him wonder if the wine was responsible or if she might have a mild case of attention deficit disorder. Not that it mattered, because either way he was about to send her plummeting downward again. But hell, she was going to find out eventually, and when better than after drinking
two
bottles of wine? “Speaking of homes, I'm hoping you won't work up the nerve to leave Whistler's Landing until after you rebuild my models.”

She snapped her gaze to his, her face draining of all color. “What do you mean, rebuild them? You . . . you don't like the house?”

Jesse shoved his hands in his pockets. “I liked the short glimpse I got of it before both the island and house models were crushed.”

“Crushed?” she repeated in a whisper, her eyes widening as she clutched her throat. “They were destroyed? Both of them? How?” she asked when he nodded.

“Beatrice threw the birthday cake at Stanley, but most of it hit his friends standing behind him when he ducked, and three of them stumbled back and fell on the models.”

“But only the island was behind the reception counter.”

“The house was sitting on the floor beneath it.”

She stared at him for several seconds, then simply . . . imploded. “Oh, God,” she rasped, covering her face with her hands and bending at the waist until her head touched her knees.

Jesse dropped to a crouch in front of her and laid a hand on her back when he saw her shudder, not exactly sure how to respond. He usually was unmoved by tears, since in his experience they usually only showed up when a woman wasn't getting her way. “I'm sorry,” he said, dropping his hand when she lifted her head to look at him, her expressive blue eyes filled with pain. “I can only imagine how much work went into making them.”

“I spent four weeks just on the island alone,” she said thickly. “Clients rarely ask for presentation models, so the ones I make are usually just rough studies to help them understand the plans. But right after your meeting in February, I asked Stanley to hire a pilot to fly over the island and take aerial shots.” She slowly shook her head. “I lost count of all the individual trees and rocks I made, and I perfectly replicated that stand of pines to the west of the lower bluff.”

“I saw the pines,” he said softly. “The island model was beautiful.”

“And the house,” she cried, burying her face in her hands again. “I
loved
that house.”

“And I loved what I saw of it. I'm sorry,” he repeated when another shudder wracked her. “Would you like me to drive you home tonight, Cadi? It won't take me a minute to unhook the camper.”

“I can't go home,” she said, straightening on a deep breath and using the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her eyes. “I don't want to see anyone. I don't even want to talk to them. Oh, God,” she groaned, lifting her hands to hide her face. “They're all going to be so
nice
.”

Jesse was back to not knowing how to respond. “I'm pretty sure that's what people do when someone they care about has . . . had an upset,” he said lamely as he stood up and slowly started backing toward the door, only to stop in surprise when she lowered her hands to glare at him—her mood apparently switching directions again.