It's a Wonderful Wife (6 page)

Freeing one of the beers and popping the tab, Jesse actually groaned as he took a long guzzle. He took two more guzzles before shoveling several forkfuls of lukewarm stuffing and potato in his mouth, then picked up the beer again with one hand while he opened the notebook with the other, only to stop the beer halfway to his mouth as he stared down at the pencil sketch on the first page. It wasn't so much the small boy soaring high on a swing suspended from a towering pine that caught him off guard, but rather the name
Sinclair
, written in the upper right-hand corner of the page, under which was written,
Add swing to pine tree on the large house model before Friday.

He closed the notebook just enough to see the front cover, even though he knew this wasn't the one she'd had at his meeting with Stanley back in February, as it had been twice this size and thinner. He opened it up to lay flat on the table, deciding Cadi must carry this one in her purse to quickly sketch ideas when they came to her. The woman might claim she saw things three-dimensionally, but she certainly didn't have any trouble rendering in two dimensions.

He took a quick swig of beer, then turned the page to find a sketch of . . . Hell, was that the Mad Hatter from
Alice in Wonderland
sitting in a water fountain, holding a bulging-eyed rabbit by the neck? Or maybe . . . well, whichever character he was, the guy definitely looked sinister. Jesse saw the name
Stapleton
at the top, then grinned to see
pompous ass
written beneath it.

He slowly turned pages, noting the different names above the mostly happy, animated characters, some commanding two and even three sketches. Other clients, Jesse figured, whose rough study models Cadi must be working on for Stanley. He stopped when he saw the Sinclair name again, quickly leafed through several more pages to see they all contained similar sketches before going blank, then went back to the beginning of the series.

With the same reverent awe he'd felt as he'd studied his house on the island model, Jesse slowly worked his way through the hastily-drawn sketches; not of his home, he realized, but of what appeared to be several . . . playhouses with moving walls and bookcases that opened to reveal secret alcoves behind them. Except for the last sketch, which showed an entire room rising from the ground, its four walls dotted with large portholes set at different heights.

He leafed back through the series, this time noting that each drawing was populated with simply rendered male and female children varying in ages from toddlers to young teenagers, all wearing huge smiles, all totally engrossed in the moment as they danced, sat quietly reading a book, or dueled with wooden swords.

Jesse lifted his head and rubbed his face on a deep breath, then simply sat staring off at nothing. He'd been ten, Ben fourteen, and Sam sixteen when they'd gone to live with Bram and Grammy Rose after their parents had died in a plane crash. And although its forty rooms, indulgent staff, and sprawling twelve hundred acres had been every kid's dream of a personal adventure land, on that day Rosebriar had gone from being whatever their wild imaginations could conjure up to merely being their home.

And judging from the sketches she'd drawn while he'd been in the grocery store, Jesse decided Cadi hadn't been boasting about spending the last three months getting to know him intimately. Hell, it would appear she knew him better than he knew himself. He hadn't even realized what he'd been looking for when he'd asked Stanley Kerr to design him a home that would instill lasting memories in children rather than impress adults.

Jesse looked down at her sketch of the room magically rising up from what should be solid granite, and wondered if Stanley didn't have Cadi sit in on his meetings with clients so he could tap some of her own obvious creativity.

Had Owen Glace realized his daughter's talent and done the same?

Jesse turned the page and read the notes she'd made.

Exactly how many kids in a passel, anyway?

One clubhouse for girls and one for boys, or a single hideaway with separate wings?

Hidden? Or a towering, impenetrable fortress?

Jesse couldn't stifle a snort. Apparently the woman felt that even after shelling out several lifetimes of salaries on the main house, he should still have enough money left to build his kids an elaborate clubhouse—or two—complete with moving walls and rising rooms.

But then, what does true creativity care about costs? Jesse glanced toward the stairs leading to the bedroom, then pulled the pencil out of the notebook's spine and turned the page.

I'm thinking a passel is at least four kids, not counting cousins.

Definitely two clubhouses, if only to keep the peace.

Boys' should be hidden.

Girls' should definitely be impenetrable, with Dad having the only key once they're teenagers. (Isn't Maine known for its pink granite? That would make a girly fortress.)

Preferably situated at opposite ends of the island—again, to keep the peace.

He studied what he'd written, then added:
No television or electronics except for an intercom to the main house.
He thought for a minute, then tacked on:
Plumbing, though, so they don't have to keep running home to use the bathroom. At least in the girls' towering pink fortress; the boys can whiz in the woods.

Jesse closed the notebook and slipped the pencil back in the spine, then slid it out of the way. He then spent a full minute wrestling the chicken container open and ten minutes stuffing his face before he felt his eyelids growing heavy. He carried his mess to the kitchen sink, washed his hands, and put everything in the fridge. He grabbed the notebook off the table, quietly walked to the bedroom, then carefully leaned over his softly snoring stowaway and tucked the book beside her.

But seeing her cell phone peeking from a pocket on the purse, he gently pulled it out, then powered it on as he walked to the bathroom. Figuring he wasn't doing anything Miss Snoop wouldn't do if given the chance, Jesse pulled out his own cell phone while hers booted up, then opened his contacts. Relieved but not really surprised that Cadi didn't have password protection, he went into her settings, found her number, and added it to his phone. And to be fair, he added his contact info to her phone so it would show on her screen when he called to see how she was doing in . . . well, a gentleman would probably wait at least two weeks before beginning his pursuit in earnest, but Jesse gave himself four days—five, tops—before he caved in and called.

He returned to the bedroom and slipped the phone back in her purse, then just stood there grinning down at her. Damn, she looked soft and inviting and . . . vulnerable. The lady might think she'd gotten to know him over the course of building his house one wall and window at a time, but he'd learned quite a bit about her just today—which is also why he wasn't surprised she'd helped herself to his bed. Oh yeah; despite her boast that she'd had
lots
of boyfriends in college, Cadi Glace was an innocent. She was also way too trusting for his peace of mind.

Regretting that he couldn't join the real-life Goldilocks sleeping in his bed, Jesse lifted the corner of the down comforter and carefully folded it over her, then snagged a pillow and went back to the living area. But eyeing the couch and deciding he was too tired to take the plastic off the mattress, he turned to the recliner. He kicked off his shoes and was just about to sit down when he caught sight of movement in the parking lot and stepped to the window in time to see a semi-deflated balloon skimming along the ground. He scanned the ceiling, looking for the sole survivor, but headed for the door with a curse when he realized it had gone missing. He quietly went outside and hurried around to the rear of the camper, then sprinted toward the trees when he saw the balloon tugging against a bush in the soft breeze—muttering another curse when one of his socked feet landed on a small rock and made him limp the last few strides.

He untangled the balloon and straightened, only to still in surprise. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered at the sight of Cadi's engagement ring tied to the end of the ribbon. “Son of a bitch,” he repeated, closing his fist around the ring.

He had half a mind to cut his losses and fire Stanley Kerr.

But that would mean he'd also be firing Cadi. And although he'd only seen the small version of it on the island model, he didn't want to hire another architect—he wanted
that
home. Jesse coiled the ribbon around each hand and pulled until it snapped, finished popping the balloon and stuffed it in his pocket, then opened his fist to stare down at the ring. To hell with waiting two weeks, or even four days; tomorrow he was sending Miss Glace a large bouquet of flowers, because he was counting today as their first date.

FIVE

Sitting on a bench tucked between a rack of spring pansies and a pallet of charcoal briquettes outside the grocery store, Cadi adjusted the brim of her hat as she watched the parade of fishing boats idling past the breakwater toward the rising sun, and tried to decide when she'd become such a people-pleaser. Long before her mother had died, certainly. Probably even before she'd let her father talk her into building his models. Heck, if she really wanted to pin it down, she would say everything had changed right about the time she'd reached the age of reasoning at around seven or eight years old.

But the foundation had likely been laid in kindergarten, when she'd made the shocking discovery that her parents were old. None of the other kids' parents had had gray hair; only their
grandparents
. And all her friends had had exciting moms and dads who picked them up from school on motorcycles, took them tenting in Acadia National Park and hiking up Cadillac Mountain, and even went swimming with them in the numbingly cold ocean.

She had also climbed Cadillac, but in the backseat of a sensible sedan after spending the night in a charming bed-and-breakfast in Bar Harbor. Her parents had taken her to Sand Beach in Acadia at least twice every summer, but had only allowed her to go in the water up to her knees while they'd hovered at the edge of the waves, and then only after slathering her from forehead to feet with sunscreen. They'd always insisted she wear a wide-brimmed hat, had always packed up within an hour—because everyone knew the sand magnified the sun's strength—and had always taken her to Jordan Pond House for afternoon tea and popovers on the lawn as consolation.

God, she was
still
wearing hats.

Cadi remembered being in the first grade and angrily asking why she couldn't go dig clams with her friends one Saturday. “You're our miracle baby,” her mother had said by way of explanation, “and we'd worry about something happening and us not being there to help you.”

“Then you come clamming, too, so if I get stuck in the mud, you can pull me out.”

Her mom had laughed then. “Oh, honey, I'm afraid
you
would be pulling
me
out. My knees aren't what they used to be, and I wouldn't be able to walk for a week if I went slogging through a clamflat.” They'd gone on another “adventure” that Saturday instead, and Cadi had once again explored the wonders of Maine from the backseat of their sensible sedan.

But it hadn't been until three of her friends had each lost a grandparent over the course of her second-grade year that she'd realized she could just as easily lose her parents. She'd also realized they couldn't help being old. So she'd stopped asking to do stuff with her friends and started making sure she never upset her parents, afraid one or both of them might suddenly keel over dead at the dinner table, just like her best friend Susan's grandma.

Yes, that was when she'd started down the slippery slope of pleasing people, which had quickly grown to include friends, teachers, townspeople, college roommates, and even Stanley.

Not coworkers, though, because she'd never held an actual job. Heck, the IRS probably hadn't even known she existed up until fourteen months ago, since her parents had always given her unbridled access to their money, even going so far as to present her with a blue—to match her eyes—leather-clad checkbook on her thirteenth birthday; the enclosed card saying whatever was theirs would always and forever be hers.

Who gave a thirteen-year-old a checkbook, especially one without a register? “You don't worry about that, Cadi,” her father had said when she'd asked how big a check she could write. “Whatever amount you fill in will be covered.” He'd smiled and patted her hand. “Just try not to bankrupt us, okay?” And then he'd slipped a pad of Glace Architecture checks in where the register should have gone. “But I want you to use these checks whenever you're purchasing materials to build your models, because supplies are a business expense.”

Good Lord, two weeks after he'd died she'd had to go to the bank—to a branch clear over in Ellsworth, she'd been so embarrassed—and have someone show her how to reconcile the monthly statements. It was then she'd vowed that if she ever had children of her own, she would make damn sure they grew up knowing how the world worked.

Her dad had even purchased her cars; the first one when she'd gotten her driver's license and the second when she'd come home from college and had had to commute to Machias three days a week. Which was why she'd taken Stanley with her when she'd decided to buy a new one a couple of months ago, since she'd never even set foot in a dealership before. And being such a people-pleaser, she'd let him talk her into another boring, albeit luxurious, sedan. Which was also why, fourteen months after Owen Glace's death, she was still engaged to a man who was in no hurry to get off his comfortable couch.

Cadi knew the real reason Stanley wasn't looking for a new partner was because of their agreement that when he found one, she was leaving. He didn't even have to buy out her father's half of the business, because Owen had signed it over to him—lock, stock, and building—the day they'd gotten engaged. The problem was that Stanley worried he wouldn't
have
an actual business if she left, to which she'd argued that all he had to do was find the right partner.

But for that to happen, he had to at least
look
.

Cadi twisted the cap off her bottle of Moxie with a heavy sigh, took a sip of the bittersweet soda, then screwed the cap back on with another sigh. Unless she finally started pleasing herself, ten years from now someone was going to find her cold dead body slumped over one of her models, with
sheer boredom
cited on the certificate as the cause of death.

And really, only two things were stopping her from going home this morning, packing a suitcase, and simply driving away—Stanley and Wiggles. Well, three things, since she didn't have a car to drive away in. No, four, as she wanted to see the entire world but had absolutely no idea where to go first.

Okay, so she wouldn't leave today. But she could at least start packing.

Wiggles might actually be the easiest, Cadi decided as she studied the camper at the end of the parking lot. All she had to do was buy a small motorhome and take the little brat with her. She could also get that sporty red convertible and tow it behind them, so she'd have something to zip around in once she got where she was going.

There; problems two and three solved.

Then all she had to do was climb in her camper and drive away, because the direction wasn't nearly as important as seeing Whistler's Landing in her rearview mirror.

So she guessed that solved that problem.

Stanley, however, wasn't quite so solvable, since she loved him like the brother she'd always wanted. The man had been a rock when her father had suffered his first heart attack, and it had been Stanley's idea they pretend to get engaged. He'd also shouldered most of the workload at the office, often drafting into the wee hours of the night to meet the impossible deadlines Owen Glace kept promising all the clients he refused to turn away.

Both she and Stanley had begged him to slow down and enjoy the fruits of his labor, but apparently her dad's only concern had been to build an even larger nest egg—which Cadi had realized only after she'd learned how to read investment statements. Because despite his already substantial portfolio, the man had spent the last twenty-nine years of his life making sure his daughter could spend the rest of
her
life fulfilling her heart's desires on just the dividends alone.

She still wasn't sure how she felt about his working himself to death on her behalf, since she knew he likely would have
worried
himself to death even sooner if he hadn't been able to go to the office and get lost in his designs—which he loved doing almost as much as he loved her.

But it was time she started loving herself, even if that meant she had to kick Stanley off his comfortable couch with a size-eight sneaker of tough love. The man had an innate talent for laying out the mechanics of a house and drafting amazingly smart plans, and if she could somehow . . . force him to find the right partner, Kerr & Whoever Architecture could outshine her father when it came to designing award-winning homes.

Tough love . . . Tough, creative love . . .

Cadi stopped twisting the soda bottle cap. No, she couldn't.

Or could she?

No, it was just too cruel. Too unlike her.

It would certainly be effective, though. And she could soften the blow by giving Stanley a couple of weeks to realize she was serious. But only if during their ride home this morning he promised to start setting up interviews with potential partners
today
. And if she didn't see the first candidate sitting in his office by . . . oh, by Friday of next week, she would start burning models. No candidate by the following Monday, she'd start burning her sketchbooks.

Okay, that was the plan, and she was sticking to it. She'd give Stanley fair warning, and if he didn't like it . . . well, he'd just have to pull up his big boy pants and discover for himself that he had the creative talent to design award-winning, million-dollar homes.

Because telling him didn't seem to be working.

Cadi heard a sound and lifted her head to see Jesse turning from closing the door on his camper. Even from this distance she could see he was scowling as he scanned the parking lot, making her wonder if he might be a bit of a grump until he had his morning coffee. Or, she thought with a snicker, maybe he simply didn't like having uninvited guests write
Thank You
in pink lipstick on his bathroom mirror before sneaking away. Not that she could imagine a
normal
woman being in any hurry to leave his bed, even as she tried to imagine what it would have been like to have had him in it with her.

God, he was handsome. And not in a polished urban-businessman way, either, as his deceptively casual manner and easy smile did little to disguise an underlying strength only a fool would challenge.

He certainly didn't appear to be lacking in physical strength, either.

Heaven help her, it had been all she could do to pay attention to what he was saying during his meeting with Stanley last February, much less concentrate on her drawings. And she'd gotten all flustered when he'd stood up to leave and focused those sharp, Atlantic-blue eyes on hers as he'd held out his hand to say good-bye. She'd shot out of her chair like an idiot, dropped her sketchpad, then nearly bumped heads with him when they'd both bent to pick it up.

Stanley had noticed, of course, and hadn't stopped teasing her until she'd threatened to make the Covingtons' rough study model look like a gingerbread house.

Cadi felt herself getting flustered all over again as her repeatedly gracious rescuer headed toward her, his stride as commanding as his reputation. Had he honestly thought she hadn't recognized him yesterday when he'd stopped to offer her a ride? God, if it wasn't bad enough she'd spent the last three months imagining herself living in the house she was building
with
the man she was building it for, she'd also spent every night dreaming of him—some of those dreams positively salacious. But even more disconcerting had been her
day
dreams of the two of them on his island, playing hide-and-seek with a passel of kids who just happened to be theirs.

He stopped in front of her, and Cadi lost the shade of her hat brim when she looked up and had to squint into the sun trying to read his expression—although she didn't have any trouble guessing his mood when he spoke.

“Exactly what were you thanking me for before sneaking off without saying good-bye?”

Nope, not a morning person. “For answering the questions in my notebook. You know the one I'm talking about? The private notebook I carry in
my purse
?”

She wasn't sure, but she thought the corner of his mouth twitched. “The only notebook I know of is the one I found on the floor beside
my bed
.”

Yup, that was definitely a twitch.

“How's your head this morning, Cadi?”

“The same as it is every morning—quite happy and raring to go. Why, does yours hurt? Maybe you're addicted to caffeine and need a cup of coffee so you'll be happy, too.”

She heard him sigh. “Maybe you're right. Can I bring you back one?” he asked, his gaze moving from the soda she was holding to the box sitting on the bench beside her purse.

“Thank you, but no. I think coffee is as nasty-tasting as it is addicting. Wait,” she said when he started toward the door. With the sun hitting him square on when he stopped, she could see he did look a tad tired, making her wonder why he'd slept in the recliner if the camper had enough beds for six people. She shot him a smile, hoping his sense of humor got up early. “I feel I should warn you that the owner thinks I'm your wife. Mr. Dean saw me walking up the parking lot from the camper when he was putting out the pansies, and insisted I come in and get coffee and some of the fresh doughnuts that had just arrived.”

Up went an eyebrow. “And you didn't feel the need to correct him?”

“Not once I realized the name Sinclair literally opens doors.”

“Well, sure,” he drawled, walking back and dropping onto the bench beside her. “Why not also help yourself to my name.”

“That's what I thought,” she said, widening her smile because she couldn't tell if he was okay with her little deception or not.

“And when I show up here again
without
my wife?” he asked.

“Oh, I hadn't thought about that. Wait, I know. You can say I ran off with Rosebriar's pool boy.”

He twisted slightly to lean back against the bench and crossed his arms over his chest as he appeared to ponder her suggestion, then slowly shook his head. “I think I'll tell them you're home tending your aging aunt. That way I won't have to endure sympathetic smiles and pats on the shoulder from everyone in town for being jilted, which would also make me a target for every single female in twenty miles.”