More Than Words Can Say (11 page)

“She sounds like she was something of a dynamo,” Brandon said, “despite having been in a wheelchair.”

“Yes,” Chelsea answered softly, remembering. “That she was.”

Brandon was easy to talk to, she was learning. There was something calm and confident about his behavior, his speech, the way he moved. And he never seemed pushy or self-absorbed, like some other men who had been overly eager to impress her. He seemed to live on a timetable of his own choosing, with priorities to match. And the more she saw of him, the more endearing he became.

“So shall we eat?” she asked. “I don’t know about you, but the smells coming from the kitchen are driving me crazy.”

Brandon quickly grinned at her. It was good to see him smile again, she realized.

“Sure,” he answered. “But I’ll take care of things. You rest that hand of yours.”

As they went into the kitchen, the dogs followed and hunkered down hopefully near the potbellied stove. Brandon took Margot’s dish from the oven and placed it on a trivet. When he removed the lid, the enticing aromas fully escaped at last, causing the dogs to take full and proper notice. He then cut the bread and plated the coq au vin.

As Chelsea took her first bite, her face lit up. “
Oh
. . .
my . . . God . . . ,
” she said softly. “It’s amazing. The best I’ve ever had.”

“Yes,” Brandon answered. “Just like the two people who brought it.”

Chelsea took another sip of wine to find that it went perfectly with the chicken. “So what’s their story?” she asked. “I know that my great-grandfather hired them sometime after Brooke’s accident, but that’s about it.”

Brandon wiped his mouth with his napkin. “They were both born and raised in France,” he said. “After they married, they emigrated to Quebec and finally settled in Serendipity. Jacques started doing odd jobs, and he answered the caretaker ad that Brooke’s father had placed in the paper. The rest, as they say, is history.”

After a time, Chelsea finished her meal and sat back in her chair. The rich French wine was starting to take effect, emboldening her a little. After such a long and momentous day the sensation was welcome, but her injured hand had begun throbbing again.

“So tell me,” Chelsea said, “what’s Dr. Brandon Yale really like?”

Brandon smiled. “Well,” he said, “he’s not perfect, certainly, but most folks seem to think he’s a pretty good guy. He likes bourbon, hunting and fishing, flying around in his plane, and watching old movies. And he likes to try to help people when he can, such as opening up old cottages for new neighbors.”

Chelsea smiled to herself.
And so a picture starts to emerge . . . ,
she thought.

“May I ask you another question?” she said.

“Sure.”

Chelsea placed one elbow atop the table and rested her chin in her uninjured palm. “How’d you get that scar?” she asked.

Brandon shook his head and snorted slightly. “Before college, I joined the army and became a ranger,” he answered. “My folks weren’t well-off, and it helped to pay the tuition. That’s also where I learned to fly. Anyway, I wish I could say that I got this scar from some special ops mission, but I can’t.”

“So how did you get it?” she asked again.

Brandon let go a rather chagrined smile. “I got drunk one night, while on leave in Wyoming,” he answered. “On my way out of the bar, I stumbled straight into one of the saloon’s swinging doors. Knocked me right on my butt. Pretty embarrassing for a ranger.”

Chelsea couldn’t help but laugh. “Well,” she said, “at least you’re honest.”

Brandon laughed a little. “My friends had to pick me up and load me into my car. No man left behind, as we rangers say!”

“We seem to be quite out into the boondocks here,” Chelsea said. “Is there anyplace nearby where I could pick up a few things, without having to drive all the way into Serendipity?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Brandon answered. “There’s a combination diner and sundry shop about two miles west of here on Schuyler Road. A lady friend of mine named Jenny Beauregard owns it. Some of the retired locals gather there every morning for coffee and gossip. The store part doesn’t carry a lot of things, just the necessities. But the food and coffee are good, and the place might save you a longer trip one day. Sometimes I stop there and get a cup to go while I’m on the way to the hospital.”

“Thanks,” Chelsea answered. “I’ll remember that.”

Chelsea sat back in her chair and looked at him. She was beginning to like this man, she realized. Just then Chelsea’s injured hand bit her again, and she winced slightly.

“You go back onto the porch and sit down,” Brandon said. “I’ll clean up the mess.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yeah. In fact, it’ll be kind of a treat for me.”

“Why?”

“Because this cottage of yours is quite possibly the only one on all of Lake Evergreen that has an actual, working dishwasher, that’s why,” he answered.

After Brandon had cleaned things up, he again joined her on the porch, as did the dogs. Night had fallen in earnest, and Chelsea was becoming tired. But at the same time she was enjoying his company, and she wasn’t eager to see him leave.

“I should go home,” he said.

“Are you sure?” she asked rather quickly. Then she caught herself, wondering if she had sounded too forward, too interested.
The wine,
she realized.

“Yeah,” he answered. “And besides, you look like you could use some rest.”

Just as Brandon was about to leave, he realized that he had nearly forgotten something.

“Before I go,” he said, “do you remember the beer that I brought? Well, I actually had an ulterior motive. Watch this!”

Before Chelsea could ask what he was talking about, Brandon looked down from his chair and shouted, “Jeeves! Fetch!”

“
Huh?
” Chelsea asked.

Brandon winked at her. “Check this out,” he answered.

To Chelsea’s amazement, Jeeves immediately bounded up from the floor and scurried into the kitchen, where he skidded to a stop on the linoleum floor directly before the refrigerator. From where they sat, Brandon and Chelsea could easily turn and see. Although Chelsea hadn’t noticed before, at some point during the evening, Brandon had apparently tied a kitchen towel to the refrigerator door handle. Jeeves promptly bit into the end of the dangling towel. Then he squatted down on his haunches and yanked the refrigerator door open, the various items in the door shelves rattling noisily.

My God . . . ,
Chelsea thought
. I must be seeing things . . .

Brandon had placed the beer bottles on the lowest shelf, where Jeeves could reach them. Cocking his head at a sharp angle, Jeeves gripped one of the cozy-protected bottles between his jaws and he removed it. To Chelsea’s added astonishment, Jeeves then used his rump to push against the refrigerator door, shutting it. Proud as proud could be, with his tail wagging high, he strutted back onto the porch and promptly dropped the cold beer onto Brandon’s lap. If it were possible for a dog to grin from ear to ear, Jeeves was doing it.

Never before in her life had Chelsea been so at a loss for words. For several moments she sat dumbfounded, wondering if what she had just experienced was some sort of hallucination.

“Are you
kidding
me?” she fairly shouted. “I’ve heard of dogs fetching slippers and the morning paper—but a
beer
?”

“You saw it here first,” Brandon answered as he set the beer on the coffee table. “I’d have never believed it either, if one of the hospital surgeons hadn’t taught his dog to do it. The first time I saw it done was at one of his poker games, and I reacted just like you. Then he showed me how to train Jeeves. But you’ve got to be patient, because it takes months. And you always have to use a beer cozy to protect the dog’s teeth. I taught Jeeves last winter. As you might imagine, when the snow falls in Serendipity, there isn’t much to do.”

Then he paused and smiled into her eyes. “Gives a whole new meaning to the term
man’s best friend
. . . ,” he added.

Chelsea didn’t want to embarrass herself by laughing so hard, but she just couldn’t help it. Never in her life had she ever seen anything so wonderfully preposterous. Moreover, like her father, she had always loved dogs. If she and Brandon could teach Dolly to do it, she would have one-upped her father for all time. At last, she regained control of herself.

Today has truly been one for the books,
she thought
. A wonderfully surprising cottage, Gram’s wartime journal, and a beer-fetching dog . . .

“Do you suppose that you could teach Dolly for me?” she asked Brandon. “If you knew my father, you’d realize that it would forever put me in your debt.”

“Happy to try,” he answered, “but I can’t promise that we’ll be successful.”

For a time they again sat there on the porch, saying nothing and looking at each other. As the waves drifted ashore from the darkness beyond, they made a consistent, comforting sound. At last, Brandon stood.

“Now I really have to go,” he said. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow. Try to keep your bandaged hand out of the water, and I’ll come by tomorrow night to check on it. Oh, and although it isn’t really dangerous around here, you should keep your doors locked at night. And
never
put your trash outside the cabin. Instead, I’ll help you drive it to the dump every so often.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Bears,” he answered.

“
Bears?
” she asked incredulously.

“Yep,” Brandon answered.

Chelsea stood to see him out. After opening the porch door and letting Jeeves go, he paused for a moment and looked into her eyes.

“It’s nice to finally have a neighbor,” he said. Then he smiled a bit, the corners of his eyes wrinkling handsomely. “Especially such a pretty one,” he added quietly.

Yet again, Chelsea felt something tug at her heart. “Good night,” she said in return. “And thanks again for everything.”

Chelsea then watched Brandon and Jeeves stroll back down the moonlit beach until they finally disappeared into the darkness. She felt a bit tired, but her curiosity about Brooke’s journal remained high, and she was dying to know more. And so, rather than retire, she took the old journal to the couch, where she settled in with the last of the Fabiennes’ excellent wine.

On opening the journal to the next entry, she eagerly began to read . . .

Chapter 9

Friday, June 5, 1942, 10:00
P.M
.

As I write these words in my journal, Greg has just departed my cottage and gone home. We spent the late afternoon and most of the evening together, both on the lake and here at my place, where we shared dinner. I must say that I’m finding him to be a very charming man. And because of that, I’m still having a difficult time understanding why he isn’t married. He has so much to offer a woman, it seems . . .

But these are strange times, and they have made for equally odd personal lives. Just the same, I was able to become more acquainted with him today, and I must say that I find his company very appealing. And I must also admit that now, as I sit here alone on my porch, I’m surprised by how much I miss his company . . .

“Thank you for this!” Greg shouted happily at Brooke, trying to be heard above the roar of the Chris-Craft’s energetic motor. “I haven’t gone fishing in ages!”

Brooke smiled and then turned the boat’s steering wheel a bit, adjusting their course.

“Neither have I!” she shouted back. “Since the war started, my dad hasn’t gotten up here much. He’s the one who taught me and who always took me out!” Then she turned toward Greg for a moment and smiled as she watched the wind torment his light-brown hair.

“And besides,” she added, “although I’ve gone fishing alone once or twice, it’s always better to have someone along! Don’t you agree?”

Greg smiled broadly. “Absolutely!” he answered.

It was late afternoon, two days since they had first met. By now the sun had begun its nightly descent, the sky was clear, and a light wind bothered the surface of the lake. It had been Brooke’s idea to take Greg fishing, partly because she had wanted to go, and partly as a way to thank him for the sugar and coffee he had so graciously given to her. It was her plan to catch a couple of fish today and to serve them to him as tonight’s dinner. Preferably some walleyes, she hoped, because they were the best eating.

But first, we’ve got to catch them,
she thought.

Greg had enthusiastically accepted her invitation. He loved to fish, he said, and had done a lot of it around here during his youth. But because money was tight, he had yet to purchase a boat and motor. And so just before five o’clock, the two of them had set off across the waves in search of their evening meal.

Brooke was wearing tan shorts, a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, matching sneakers, a white tennis visor, and sunglasses. Greg was dressed the same way as when Brooke had first met him: a tan work shirt with matching trousers and a pair of no-nonsense work shoes. Today he also sported a pair of aviator sunglasses, which Brooke found appealing.

As she piloted the boat farther out into the lake, Brooke pursed her lips, thinking. She had to admit that catching some fish for dinner was not her only motive for being out here with Greg, because she could presumably catch the fish without his help. Rather, her reasons had been more complicated. To her own surprise, she had very much wanted to see Greg again. He had been on her mind for the last two days, and because of that, she had felt even more alone than usual. But now that he sat beside her in her father’s speeding runabout, she felt happy again.

But am I too happy about this?
she wondered. After thinking about it for a few moments, she shook her head knowingly.
No,
she thought.
We’re neighbors, after all. And what could be more normal on Lake Evergreen than two neighbors out trying to catch their dinner?