It's a Wonderful Wife (7 page)

Okay, maybe he was a morning person after all. “Sure, why not. I've been a fake fiancée for two years; I don't have a problem with being a fake wife.” She picked up the box and held it out to him. “You can have a doughnut if you want, but the other two are for Stanley.”

He halted in mid-reach. “Excuse me?” he said, his good mood vanishing.

Cadi nodded. “I called him an hour ago and apologized for yesterday, and asked if he'd come pick me up. He should be here any minute now.”

“You apologized? For
what
?”

“For bringing the entire town to the office without asking him first. You don't think it's rather embarrassing to have all your friends walk in on you having an org— Having group sex?”

“And you don't think— Wait, you knew about Stanley's sexual preferences?”

“Of course. Well, maybe not completely, since he usually meets his friends in Ellsworth. But he said they just showed up yesterday wanting to surprise him for his birthday.” She snorted. “Apparently they had the same idea as me when he told them he had to work late.”

“So you didn't run away last night because you were humiliated that everyone in town thought your fiancé was cheating on you?”

“I was humiliated for Stanley.” She set the box back on the bench. “And because I knew they were going to start treating me like a fragile piece of china all over again.” She beamed him a smug smile. “But I've figured out how to solve that problem, as well as the problem of Stanley finding a new partner. I'm going to buy a small motorhome, and in two weeks I'm setting off to see the world before I start looking for Mr. Right. Well, whatever parts of the world I can drive to.”

“Alone?” he asked, a distinct edge back in his voice.

“No, with Wiggles. That's why the camper, so she can come with me. Um, maybe you should go in and get yourself a large cup of coffee.”

She saw him take a deep breath. “What about my house and island models? If you leave, who's going to rebuild them?”

Cadi looked down at her bottle of soda. She'd gone out of her way to forget that three months of her work—that she'd poured her heart into—had been destroyed. “Stanley can hire a professional model builder.”

“I want you to build them.”

Oh, God. It was hard not pleasing a person right to their face, which was why Cadi continued to stare at her soda. “Your contract is with Glace and Kerr Architecture, and I'm not really part of the firm.”

“Stay long enough to rebuild both models, and I'll double whatever Stanley pays you.”

She looked up in horror. “I can't hang around another
three months
.” She took a deep breath. “You don't understand,” she said calmly. “I have a small problem saying no to people, and if I don't get away from everyone I care about in the next week or two, I may never leave. And I really don't want someone finding me slumped over one of my models ten years from now, having died of sheer boredom before my fortieth birthday.” She gave him a warm smile, even though she was shivering inside. But if she couldn't say no to a client—even one she'd come to know quite well and truly liked—how did she hope to stand her ground with Stanley? “A good model firm can have both your island and house done within a month of receiving the final plans, and probably do a better job.”

He said nothing, his steady gaze unreadable, and Cadi went from shivering to quaking inside as the silence deepened, which caused her to flinch when he suddenly stood up. “I need coffee,” he muttered as he headed off, only to suddenly turn and stride back just as the automatic doors opened, making her flinch again when he lifted her to her feet, pulled her against him with one hand and cupped her head with the other, and kissed her full on the mouth.

And not a quick I'll-see-you-around smooch, either, but a full-blown yet confusingly gentle lip-lock that made all of Cadi's dreams come roaring to life with salacious clarity, even as she tried to decide if she was shocked he was kissing her or dismayed that she didn't have the nerve to kiss him back.

He smelled of soap, tasted of mint, and felt as solid as the granite on his island. Which meant he must really be angry at her for refusing to rebuild his models, because why else would a man kiss a woman who smelled of stale wine, tasted of bittersweet Moxie, and who she knew for a fact looked like a rumpled piece of seaweed, if not hoping to . . . charm her into rebuilding them?

Oh God, she must have been really drunk last night to admit she'd spent the last three months getting to know him
intimately
.

“Er, sorry,” a male voice said, followed by an embarrassed chuckle. “I'll come back and water the pansies later.”

Cadi's dream came to a roaring end when Jesse lifted his head, although he continued to hold her. “No need, Ken. I was just letting my wife know how much I'm going to miss her.”

Cadi disguised her attempt to step away by patting his chest, which only made his arm around her tighten as he glanced back at Ken Dean.

“We got a call this morning that Cadi's aunt isn't feeling well,” he continued. With his fingers still threaded through her hair—hey, where was her hat?—he kissed her forehead, then dropped his arms and stepped back. “If you don't mind, honey, I'm not going to hang around and watch you leave with the guy who's driving you to the Trenton airport. Just be sure to give me a call when you get home and let me know how Aunt Angela is doing, okay?”

Fighting the blush creeping into her cheeks, all Cadi could do was mutely nod.

The outrageous liar bent down and picked her hat up from the ground—it must have fallen off when he'd kissed her—and set it on her head. He slowly tucked several curls inside it as he stared down at her with eyes darker than the Atlantic in winter, then suddenly shot her a wink, reached in his shirt pocket as he turned away, and walked over to Mr. Dean. “Well, Ken, I hope you have everything my wife and our cook seem to think we need.”

Cadi just barely stifled a snort at his not even missing a beat, using
our
and
we
as though they'd been married for years. God, he'd even come up with a name for her
fake aunt
.

So this was the high-powered executive who ruthlessly went after his competition; the one she'd purposely
not
dreamed about.

Mr. Dean took the list Jesse handed him, read down through it, then gave Cadi a pained grin. “I haven't even heard of several things on here, and I doubt you'll find some of the items I do recognize sold in any store in Maine, except maybe a specialty shop in Portland.” He frowned at the list again. “What's cordyceps?”

She had absolutely no idea.

“It's a mushroom,” Jesse drawled, “that my loving bride has been adding to my salads ever since someone told her they help boost a man's sperm count.”

Cadi didn't know whose face turned redder, hers or Ken Dean's. The store owner cleared his throat. “I, ah, I'm afraid you'll have to bring those back with you from New York.”

Where in the heck was Stanley? “Not a problem,” Cadi said brightly, deciding it was time to get in the game. “Jesse can text what items you don't have to our cook, and she can overnight them.” She batted her eyes at
her husband
. “You eat every mushroom she sends you, Pooh Bear, so we can get started on that passel of kids the moment you get back to Rosebriar.”

God, she hoped it was the sun causing that glint in his eyes, because if it wasn't, she'd just made the biggest mistake of her life in trying to one-up a professional competition crusher.

Ken Dean cleared his throat again. “I'll just go get started on this list,” he murmured as he turned and nearly ran into the doors before they could open.

It was all Cadi could do not to also turn tail and run when Jesse continued to stare at her, the glint gone and his eyes unreadable again.

Oh yeah, big mistake.

“Are you truly determined to leave in two weeks?”

Not quite sure of his mood, she decided to be honest. “I have to,” she said just as softly. She canted her head. “Do you know I've never even been on an airplane? Or a train? Or ridden on a real roller coaster? I want to see a lava flow. Touch a redwood tree. And stand on a glacier. I want . . . I don't want to die without ever having lived.”

He went back to simply staring at her, the silence seeming to grow . . . more intimate with each passing second before he suddenly smiled. “If your travels bring you to New York, give me a call. Rosebriar's just over the state line in Connecticut, and I'd enjoy giving you a tour.”

Still unsure of his mood, she slowly nodded. “I'd like that.”

He silently nodded back, then turned and walked inside the store.

Cadi backed up and plopped down on the bench with a silent groan. For as much as she'd love to see Rosebriar, she knew better than to think she could hold her own against Jesse Sinclair on his home turf. She ran her tongue over her still-tingling lips and tried to remember the last time a man had kissed her. A couple of years, maybe, if she didn't count the pretend kiss Stanley had given her at their fake engagement party? Three years, then? Surely it hadn't been more than four.

No, the last guy she'd dated had been in Machias, before they'd both graduated and he'd taken a job on a research boat in Alaska. She'd gotten her degree . . . what, six years ago?

Cadi covered her face and dropped her head to her knees with a snort. No wonder Jesse had questioned her experience with men last night. Heaven help her,
virgins
were probably more sexually active than she was.

SIX

Damn, this tough love business was hard. Not only was she now officially unengaged, Stanley was barely speaking to her. But Cadi was still proud of herself for not backing down, considering the man had almost driven into the ditch when she'd mentioned burning the models and sketchbooks. And confronting her ex-fiancé was only the beginning, as she still had an entire town—starting with Beatrice—to reeducate, since she still intended to call Whistler's Landing home. But she didn't suppose a person could suddenly stop being a people-pleaser without hurting anyone's feelings, now could they?

“Yes,” Cadi told the large, sleek, gray-and-black-spotted cat glaring down at her from the top of the refrigerator, “I'm all done worrying about your precious tail getting in a twist. So I didn't come home last night—deal with it. In fact,” she continued as she opened the tiny can of gourmet food and spooned it into a bowl, “you're about to start dealing with a harness and leash, and taking naps in front of a window that has landscapes zooming past. Because,” she added as she set the colorful ceramic dish beside its matching water bowl, “in two weeks you and I are heading off on our first of
many
adventures.”

She straightened and smiled up at Wiggles staring down at her. “I'm going to buy us a cute little camper, and we'll practice sleeping in it here in the dooryard and take some day trips before we head off for real. And once you get used to your home moving, I bet you'll actually enjoy having a change of scenery.” She headed across the kitchen when the phone rang. “I know I certainly will. Hello?” she said after picking up the ancient wall phone's large receiver.

“Cadi, you're home.”

“Yes, Bea, I'm home. Stanley dropped me off ten minutes ago.”

There was an abrupt silence. “You spent the night with Stanley?” her friend whispered.

“No, I called him this morning and asked if he'd come pick me up in Castle Cove.”

Another silence, and then, “You called Stanley to go get you instead of me?”

“I didn't need to have a heart-to-heart talk with you, Bea,” Cadi explained gently.

“So everything's okay between you two? Last night was just a . . . misunderstanding?”

“We're okay,” Cadi said, again gently, “since we've agreed to end our engagement.”

“Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry.”

“There's nothing to be sorry for. Stanley and I both realized we love each other like a brother and sister instead of romantically. Hey, you wouldn't happen to be free today, would you?” Cadi rushed on, wanting to change the subject.

“I can be. You want me to come over? You say you're okay,” Beatrice also rushed on, “but only because you've probably blocked out last night's . . . scene, just like you did the morning you found your father. Oh, sweetie, I called your house several times, worried about you being alone all night. How on earth did you get to Castle Cove?”

“Mr. Sinclair saw me walking down the road and was kind enough to give me a ride.”

A loud gasp came over the line. “Cadi Abigail Glace. You got in a truck with a virtual stranger—a man from New York City, no less? Your poor mother and father are likely rolling over in their graves. I realize Mr. Sinclair appears nice enough, but what do you really know about him?” She gasped again. “Please tell me you didn't stay in his camper.”

Heaven help her, Cadi wasn't sure she'd survive even two weeks. “Of course not. I had him drop me off at a motel. And the reason I asked if you're free,” she rushed on again, “is because I need a ride to Ellsworth so I can buy a new car.”

Another silence; Bea apparently not ready to leave the subject of last night's sleeping arrangements. “Of course I'll take you, and that will give us plenty of time to talk. When do you want me to pick you up?”

Wonderful; just what she wanted. “How about in an hour?” Cadi looked at the clock on the stove. “Say, around ten? I need to shower first.”

“You didn't shower at the motel?”

“Why bother when I'd just be putting dirty clothes back on again? Ten, then?”

“I'll be there.”

Cadi hung up with a heavy sigh. So when had she become such a bald-faced liar? Oh, that's right; right around the time she'd become a flaming people-pleaser.

“I'm not replacing that food, so eat before it crusts over or go hungry,” she told her pet still perched on the fridge as she headed to the front hall. She stopped in the doorway and looked back. “And just so you know, there's going to be even more changes around here. I'm not the same person who left here yesterday, Wigs. From now on you'll be living with a woman who drives a sports car, who dresses like a twenty-nine-year-old instead of a senior citizen, and who does
not
listen to music on vinyl records. Oh, and Wigs? You're going to have to work on your fear of strangers, because I intend to start dating again—a lot.” She shot the cat a smile. “And with any luck, your half of my bed will occasionally be occupied.” She hesitated. “But I don't want you to worry that I'm going to turn into a slut or anything, okay? I have no intention of sleeping with every man who catches my eye, and definitely not on my first or second date.”

Apparently not the least bit concerned, Wiggles began washing her sleek Bengal tail. Cadi crossed the foyer of the traditional Cape-style home, stopped in the living room doorway, and sighed again. Just like every other room in the house, it was frozen in time; the wallpaper, curtains, furniture, and knickknacks were all about the same age. That was because ten years into their marriage, the house Owen Glace had built his bride as a wedding present had burned down to its foundation, which made everything in
this
house nearly forty years old.

Cadi surveyed the room and decided it all had to go, right down to the ancient wallpaper. She loved her parents with all her heart and missed them terribly, but it was time to emerge—no,
burst free
of the safe, sensible, unchanging cocoon they'd built around her.

She sucked in a shuddering breath when her eyes landed on the grandfather clock they'd purchased to commemorate her birth. Okay, maybe not
everything
. She would keep some things to pass on to the children she hoped to have, to remember grandparents they would only know from pictures and the stories she would tell them. Well, and also from the beautiful homes scattered up and down the coast that she would take them to see, which, as far as she was concerned, were the true heirlooms.

Cadi turned and walked upstairs past the ascending gallery of photos documenting her life; the last photo added being that of her engagement reception right here in this house, of her and Stanley and her ecstatic father standing between them. She turned right when she reached the upper hall and stopped in the doorway of her parents' bedroom, her gaze immediately going to the gold curtains that were
not
the ones she'd bought in Bangor nine years ago.

Those had been a bright, airy yellow. But unable to wait until Christmas morning, she'd given the curtains to her mother the moment she'd arrived home on winter break, then helped her iron and put them up that afternoon. Her mom had gone to bed early that evening, claiming she had a headache and was feeling all tuckered out from spending the week helping Santa wrap a whole sleigh full of gifts. Cadi had been crawling into her own bed a few hours later when her dad had barged in without even knocking, looking frantic and saying he didn't think Sandra was breathing.

It had been quite a shock, since her mom hadn't even been sick, but Cadi knew it was supposed to be a blessing for a person to die in their sleep. Heck, that must make her twice blessed, since her father had died at his drafting table. But she considered it a blessing only for the ones not waking up, as the sudden voids they left were damn hard on those still living.

She'd re-hung the old curtains and thrown the bright yellow ones in the trash, to this day wondering if the exertion of hanging them may have caused her mom's aneurysm to rupture. Beatrice had come over a week later and helped clean out her mother's closet and drawers, then repeated the ritual after Owen's death, her friend gently but firmly helping Cadi decide what mementos to keep and what to donate.

Nearly everything in this room had to go, too. But since she couldn't see herself haggling over prices at a yard sale only to then watch her parents' belongings leaving in the back of a pickup, it appeared the Salvation Army was about to get a huge influx of furniture, curtains, towels and linens, and a small collection of vinyl records.

Cadi walked across the hall, stopped in her bedroom doorway, and tried seeing it through a man's eyes—maybe a certain Atlantic-blue-eyed man in particular—as she recalled watching a talk show six years ago about a grown woman who'd moved back home. She'd come upstairs right after that show and decided that even though she'd been twenty-three at the time, her room had looked like it belonged to a ten-year-old.

So she'd climbed in her sensible sedan the very next day and driven to Bangor—taking her dad with her, of course—and completely refurnished her bedroom. Her father had walked around the car when they'd returned home and hugged her, and said he'd been waiting years—since her mom had died, actually—for her to finally cut loose. He'd also said he hoped she kept it up, so he could have the pleasure of seeing her spend money on herself instead of on everyone else. Because what in tarnation was he supposed to do with another cardigan sweater, or a cell phone that didn't have buttons or even a dial tone?

Cadi had honestly tried. But since her little people-pleasing problem had been so firmly entrenched, she'd soon returned to purchasing only necessities and birthday gifts. She did buy a few things she didn't need or even want, but only because the proceeds from the craft fairs the Grange ladies put on went to a local animal shelter. She'd also given Bea a smartphone for her birthday a couple of years ago so she'd have someone to text other than Stanley, seeing how nearly ninety percent of the population of Whistler's Landing was over sixty years old.

And Jesse Sinclair had wondered about her being old-fashioned. Good Lord, nearly half the population was over
seventy
.

Cadi walked to her bed, threw out her arms as she spun around, and flopped back onto her pink comforter. Her room now looked like it belonged to a sixteen-year-old, all because she hadn't wanted to hurt her father's feelings when he'd gotten excited about the bedroom set he'd found in the furniture store. “Oh, and look,” he'd said, “it's named the Princess Collection.”

Not even a sixteen-year-old would have chosen a white, traditional, full-sized canopy bed with a matching bureau and sit-down vanity. “It's beautiful,” Cadi remembered saying, even as she'd glanced over at the black-lacquered queen bed and matching armoire she'd just spent the last ten minutes picturing in her bedroom.

The bedroom she
had
intended to paint a crisp, modern teal.

She stared up at her pink canopy and remembered imagining herself walking through Jesse Sinclair's ultra-modern home as she'd slowly, painstakingly built his model; the stained mahogany concrete floor burnished to a rich shine, the great room's accent wall painted a deep ocean teal as it rose two stories to an oak ceiling supported by massive steel trusses, the entire house infused with dappled light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows as the sun peeked in and out of the trees swaying in the constant ocean breeze.

She just hoped whoever Jesse eventually chose to have his passel of kids with liked concrete and steel and lots and lots of glass. The lucky lady better like her own company, too, since she'd be spending her summers almost completely cut off from the rest of the world. But then Cadi sat up with a snort, figuring no woman in her right mind would complain about being stuck on an island with a handsome, sexy husband. Heck, there was a good chance all four of their kids would be conceived on Hundred Acre Isle.

“I bet you'll get to go with him on overseas business trips, too,” Cadi muttered to the nondescript woman as she stood up and pulled her shirt over her head without bothering to unbutton it. She unfastened her slacks, then pushed them down and stepped free. “But probably what I envy about you the most is your obvious sophistication,” she added as she headed to her en suite bathroom, knowing Jesse would marry a woman who wasn't only beautiful but who could socialize with business clients from all over the world. “You'll also have to know how to put on fancy parties at Rosebriar for his pet charities,” she continued out loud, “entertain his wealthy friends with witty banter, and talk to their wives about the latest fashions.”

Well, that certainly put her dreams in perspective, didn't it, since she doubted potluck church suppers counted as sophisticated . . . anything. And the most experience she'd had with people from away had been foreign students in college, and then she'd been too shy to talk to them.

Nope, she definitely didn't have any business picturing herself spending summers on Hundred Acre Isle, much less living at Rosebriar the rest of the year.

But that didn't mean she had to
stay
old-fashioned and unsophisticated.

The reason wealthy clients chose Glace & Kerr Architecture instead of a big-city firm was because they wanted homes just like the ones dotting the coast from Kittery to Eastport: large, opulent structures with weathered cedar shingles, meandering screened-in porches, and huge granite fireplaces. That's why she'd barely been able to contain her excitement when Jesse had said he wanted a modern house. But seeing the terror in Stanley's eyes, since he'd started with Owen Glace right out of college to find himself working almost exclusively on traditional homes, Cadi had given him a thumbs-up and mouthed the word
yeah
, then started drawing in her sketchbook. Hearing that Mr. Sinclair was a top executive at an international shipping company, she'd instantly thought . . . Waves. Steel ships. Concrete docks. And large expanses of glass like on a ship's wheelhouse, instead of dozens of perfectly lined-up windows.