On Lavender Lane (20 page)

Even as Madeline braced herself for a long, forceful, and undoubtedly practical, business-minded argument about why she needed to get back to New York City now, Pepper pulled out a surprise of her own.

“We need to talk. I’m coming out there.”

It was Madeline’s turn to be stunned. “Here? To Shelter Bay?”

“Well, apparently, if I showed up in Sunnybrook Harbor, you wouldn’t be there. So, I suppose I’ll be flying to Shelter Bay.” There was another brief pause. “Your little village does have an airport, right?”

“Actually, there is a regional airport about twenty-five miles away. But you’d have to change planes in Portland.”

“Oh, I won’t fly in those little puddle jumpers. They’re like sardine cans with wings. And they don’t even have a first-class section.”

“Horrors. But it’s only a forty-minute flight from Portland. And they do serve cupcakes and muffins.” Sofia had told her that Sedona, who ran the Take the Cake bakery, had recently signed a contract to supply the small, regional airline. “Though, granted, then you’d have to drive up the coast from there.”

“In a Conestoga wagon, no doubt.”

Madeline laughed. “If you’re determined to come—”

“Not if you’d just come back to the city. Where you belong.”

“I can’t do that right now.” Madeline wasn’t sure where she belonged. Which was what this trip home was all about.

“Fine. Then I’m coming.”

“You’ve always loved negotiating.”

“That’s like saying, ‘I enjoy breathing.’ ”

“Great. So, here’s a counteroffer for you from me. Get back to ChefSteel and buy me a month to let all this stuff sink in. Then we’ll talk.”

“A week.”

“Two. And that’s my final offer.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“I had a good teacher.”

“All right. Two weeks. Then either you’re coming back to New York, where you belong, or I’m coming out there to drag you back.” She let out a long breath. “That works, since I have meetings for the next few days I can’t get out of. And speaking of negotiations, I’m in ongoing talks regarding
a mouthwateringly handsome astronaut client, who, if things work out, will be the next Bachelor handing out a red rose to some lucky girl on national TV.”

There was another signature pause. “I could introduce you.”

“Thanks. But I think I’ll pass.”

Having already lost her husband to another woman, Madeline wasn’t the least bit interested in meeting a man who was actually going to go on live TV to find his soul mate. As if that was going to happen. Worse yet, he was going to possibly break the hearts of other women while America tuned in week after week. Was nothing private anymore?

“It’s probably just as well. If he does get on the show, he’d have to keep you a secret, and that’s no way to begin a relationship.…You know, the more I think about it, the more appealing I find the idea of my coming to you. Where better to talk than some quaint, seaside town with surfers as eye candy?”

“It’s not exactly Malibu,” Madeline warned, wondering exactly how much Pepper actually knew about life outside the boroughs.

“Well, I know that. I’ve been to Malibu. I have a client who has the most amazing beach house there. My entire apartment could fit into his master bathroom.…But I digress. Stay calm. Don’t let the bastard get you down. And whatever you do, don’t answer the phone for any reporters.”

Reporters. Madeline hadn’t even thought of that possibility. Fortunately, her cell phone was not only unlisted, she was on a do-not-call list.

Like that was going to stop the people who wrote for those tacky tabloid rags.

Deciding to jump off that bridge when she came to it, she got out of the SUV and was headed up the front steps when the idea that had been simmering in her mind earlier came back to her.

It was, she decided, brilliant. And it would not only keep Pepper happy, but also solve her grandmother’s financial problems.

She thought about calling her agent back. Then, as the door was opened by a tall, whip-slender woman with a long, silver slide of hair falling over her shoulders, Madeline decided that the topic could wait two weeks until her agent arrived.

Just through thought of Pepper showing up in Shelter Bay in her black Armani suit and Prada pumps made Madeline smile.

23

Phoebe was alone in the kitchen, kneading bread and humming to herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sung, and while humming wasn’t exactly going to get her on
American Idol
anytime soon, she was the closest thing she’d felt to relaxed since…well, probably before her marriage.

She was kneading bread. There was something very relaxing about the repetitive, rhythmic motion. She found her concerns drifting away, like the sea foam on the beach, and she began to synchronize her breathing with the movement of her fingers.

In…Out…In…Out…

Her shoulders, which were always so tense that they felt like those expensive cedar hangers she’d left behind in her huge walk-in closet in the Colorado house, were actually relaxed. Peter had gotten so jealous at the idea of her going to the gym, he’d bought her enough equipment to open her own fitness business. It was then that she’d quit working out.

Now she could feel those neglected muscles in her arms and shoulders getting a good workout as she massaged the whole-wheat dough. And it felt good.

Centered in the moment as she was, undistracted by any wandering, distressing, negative thoughts, her life, which
had been a roller coaster built on eggshells, began to feel full. Almost effortless.

Happy.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night,” she transitioned from humming to actual words, “take these broken wings and learn to fly.”

Which was exactly what she was doing. She hadn’t cooked since she’d left the ranch to go to college. Summers had been spent working at the Canyon, where she ate her meals in the employee kitchen. Then, after she’d gotten married, the housekeeper Peter had hired barely allowed her into the kitchen long enough to scramble an egg or make a sandwich.

She turned the elastic brown dough and put her hands in deep, nearly to her elbows, wondering why she’d never noticed how sensual bread making could be.

Her mind began to drift as she looked out the window at the white sails on the bay.
What would it feel like,
she wondered,
to go skimming over the glassy, smooth blue waters?
She imagined herself on the deck of one of those boats, her hair blowing in the breeze.

What it felt like, she imagined, would be pure freedom.

Growing up, long before Peter had insisted she join his mother’s book club, where members always seemed to vote for depressing stories with tragic endings, Phoebe had loved to lose herself in romance novels, where couples, after overcoming obstacles, strolled into a metaphorical sunset to a place where happily-ever-afters were guaranteed.

Her mind wandered from the bay, beyond the bridge, to the sea. And instead of a sailboat, she found herself on a tall-masted ship, pulled close to a shirtless pirate as the ship, with its skull-and-crossbones flag filled with wind, plowed through the waves.

He was tall, his body tanned to the color of chestnuts. His arm, which he’d put around her waist, was strong, but in a good way. In a way that made her feel not threatened, but
protected. In fact, he may have kidnapped her, as pirates in stories often did, but from an evil duke who’d kept her locked in a dungeon and only allowed her out when he wanted to use her for his own twisted pleasures.

Her rescuer was laughing, a bold, rich, masculine sound that slipped beneath her skin, warming Phoebe from the inside out. Making her tingle in places she’d forgotten she could tingle.

He was looking down at her. As if she were a hunk of freshly baked bread dripping with herb butter and he was a man who’d been starving all his life.

“Next port: paradise,” he promised her.

Then his head swooped down and his mouth was hot and hungry, and because she would’ve melted right down to that wooden deck if he hadn’t been holding her so tight, she clung to him as her knees turned to water.…

“Excuse me.”

The deep voice crashed into her fantasy like an icy wave washing over her from a storm-tossed sea.

She froze. Gathered her scattered wits, then slowly, trembling, looked back over her shoulder. And came face-to-face with her pirate.

He was not conventionally handsome, like Peter. His face was too harshly chiseled; his shaggy hair, which brushed the collar of his denim shirt, was a far cry from her husband’s five-hundred-dollar salon style. Rather than being sun gilded from hours spent on tennis courts and golf courses, his hair was black, as dark as a moonless night, while lake blue eyes smiled at her from that deeply tanned face.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was smooth and rich and deep. And it strummed chords in Phoebe she was amazed to discover still existed. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

The sunshine yellow kitchen was shrinking. He was large. Too large. Too male. But when he smiled, Phoebe sensed that despite his size, which overwhelmed the small kitchen, he was harmless.

The muscles in her stomach unclenched.

“I knocked on the door frame,” he said when she still hadn’t found the words to answer. Even being seen talking casually with another man had, on several occasions, earned her a painful punishment once she and Peter had gotten home behind closed doors. “But you were singing,” he explained. “And you looked a million miles away.”

“I was.” She looked down at her hands, still buried in the dough. Which was a good thing, because otherwise they’d probably be shaking. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that Peter enjoyed her fear. Which was why she was determined never to show it to anyone ever again. “I’m sorry. Can I help you?”

“I’m from Blue Heron farm. I’ve got Zelda’s order out in the truck.” He held out a large, dark hand. It was nicked and scarred, and looked as if it could wrap around her neck. “Ethan Concannon.”

“I’m Phoebe.” She lifted her hands out of the dough and wiped the flour off onto the front of her jeans. Because his hand was still out there, waiting, she gathered up her courage and extended her own. “Phoebe Tyler.” The name, which had seemed so alien the first time she’d used it, had begun to feel right. As if she’d been born with it.

Her hand disappeared into his, which caused a moment of jittery panic. But she did not pull it away.

“Welcome to Shelter Bay, Phoebe Tyler.” His tone was mild, but his eyes, as they held hers, reassured. Was she really that obvious? Could he feel her quick, instinctive tremor? Could he, heaven help her, read her mind?

Then she remembered where, exactly, she was. At a shelter for battered and abused women. If he came here often, and his ease in the kitchen suggested he did, he was probably used to dealing with women like her.

It wasn’t personal. He was just being friendly. And trying, despite his size, not to frighten her. That momentary speculation she’d seen flash across his face hadn’t truly
been interest. She’d merely layered that fantasy of her pirate’s lustful gaze onto him.

Which made her really grateful that he couldn’t read her mind.

After what seemed like forever but was undoubtedly only a few seconds, he released her hand. “You must have replaced Julie.”

“Julie?”

“She used to be the one who cooked here. She’s now working at Take the Cake.”

“Oh. Zelda told me about her.” She’d even, for a fleeting instant, thought about asking to meet her, if only for proof that life did continue after escape. But then the sheriff had come into the bakery and all thoughts had fled her head.

“She was great to work with. She had very good ideas about what she liked.” He slipped the hand that had held hers into the front pocket of well-worn jeans that were torn at the knee. “How about you?”

“Me?”

“What do you like?”

It took her a minute to realize that he wasn’t being personal, but talking about recipe items.

“I don’t know.” Since that sounded stupid, she added, “It’s been a while since I cooked.”

“Yeah. Seems to be a lot of that going around,” he said agreeably. “Why don’t you come out to the truck, see if anything strikes your fancy? Then we can plan what you’d like me to bring. We do organic-only at the farm. Do you like beef?”

“I grew up on a ranch.”
Oh no!
His easygoing friendliness had thrown her off guard enough to break one of the most important rules of escape. The one about not ever giving any clues to her past life.

“Ever taste grass-fed beef?”

“No.” Another clue, but she couldn’t exactly back away
from the ranch question now, and how many places raised grass-fed beef, anyway?

“You’re in for a treat. There’s nothing like it.”

“If you do say so yourself.” Where had that come from? Another rule from her marriage was that you
never
made fun of a man.

But instead of turning red with fury, he threw back his head and laughed. “It’s not conceit if it’s true. Maybe you can come out to the farm sometime. Look around, see what we have to offer. I’ll even grill a steak.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“I’m not asking you out on a date or anything,” he assured her. “Just thought, if you’re going to be here a while and do the cooking, it’d be helpful to give you a demonstration of what we have to offer.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nodded. “Great. For now, let’s go see if anything on the truck appeals to you. This time of year, everything’s greenhouse grown, but it’s all organic.”

Like most of the women at Haven House, she was nervous around a man, which made sense. Ethan also understood how his size could be particularly intimidating for a woman who’d suffered abuse. Which, if the fading yellowish brown bruise on her cheek and the way she’d trembled like a leaf when she’d seen him standing in the doorway were any indication, this one had.

She reminded him of one of the wild birds he’d rehabilitated at the farm after donating some of his marshy back acreage to a volunteer group to use as a preserve. She was fragile. But deep down, where it counted, there was a core of strength. Ethan recognized it when she’d allowed him to touch her. It was only hand-to-hand, but in that fleeting moment, he’d experienced an emotion he hadn’t felt in a very long time. One he hadn’t expected to ever feel again.