Stranger in Camelot (12 page)

“You’re judging yourself. Calm down.”

“I don’t need your do-goodin’ attitude, okay? I don’t want your pity either.”

John ground his teeth. His sympathy was fading. She was taking advantage of the courtesy she claimed to adore, knocking him for not being cynical enough. He had plenty of cynicism, if she wanted to know the truth. In a tight, controlled voice he said, “Agnes, I think you’d like to be a bully.”

“No, I just have a fine-tuned ear for hypocrisy. Guess it comes from being misjudged too often by strangers.”

“You’re accusing an innocent man.”

“No wonder you love all that medieval hogwash about chivalry. You’re a real Sir Galahad, I admit it, but maybe that’s because you can afford to be. Get real.”

John seethed inside. He’d busted his bum trying to make her happy with some bloody silly fantasy about him, restrained himself from taking advantage of her loneliness, listened to her sorrows with a kind ear, and all it had gotten him were accusations. He’d been wrongly accused too damned much in the past year.

John grabbed one of her hands, kissed it roughly, then set it back in her lap. “You’re a snob, Agnes. I feel sorry for you.”

“Sorry for me?” she repeated, her voice rising. “I never asked for your sympathy!”

“You need a great deal more than my sympathy. You need for me to shake up your lopsided notions about how men and women are supposed to act. For one thing, when a man treats you nicely, you shouldn’t yell at him like a shrew.”

“This isn’t a medieval fairy-tale! This is real life! When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, don’t expect me to play Lady Agnes for you!”

“Would you trust me more if I’d taken advantage of your hungry little body a few minutes ago? I could have, and you know it. But I didn’t. Make up your mind—am I a hero or a fool for treating you with respect?”

“You’re not either! You’re just a different type of man, one I haven’t figured out yet!”

“This conversation is pointless. Let’s change clothes and go to one of the restaurants along the beach. We’ll have an early lunch. You could use a soothing cup of clam chowder. Heavy on the clams.”

“I think I’d better drop you off at the campground. Then you can do what you want, and I’ll go to my interview.”

“Oh, no. You’re not going to back out on your invitation. I’m going with you to see that model-train craftsman.”

“He’s not a
craftsman
, he’s a weird little old man nicknamed Squid, who builds miniature tanker cars out of salt shakers and trees out of broccoli covered in shellac! My world isn’t classy, John! You don’t know much about me or my life, but you think you have all the answers. You don’t!”

He stood and held out a hand. He’d had enough. “Get up, Agnes, and stop caterwauling. I’m sorry the subject of your ex-husband upsets you. But don’t transfer your anger to me.”

“Caterwauling?”
she echoed, crouching on all fours. “You self-satisfied horse’s ass.”

“You need a bit of cooling off, my lady.” He snagged her under both arms, pulled her to her feet, then in the same motion threw her over one shoulder. He pivoted and carried her toward the surf.

She had too much pride to squeal in public. So she hung there, her short-nailed fingers digging into his lower back, while she hissed in a whisper, “Stop! Set me down!” Several children playing nearby screamed with laughter and called to their parents to watch.

“Agnes, I’m going to tell you something, and I want you never to forget it.” John plowed into the surf until the water reached his waist. He dumped her sideways into the swirling waves. When she clambered to her feet, slinging her hair back and balling her fists, he pointed a finger at her calmly. “I’m not Richard.”

She halted, her lips parting in a silent O of shock. Then the fight drained out of her, and her fists sank into the water, unfurling. “I know that.”

“You know it, but you don’t believe it. You’ll go on treating me as a threat until you accept the fact that not all men are like him. Accept me for what I am, and don’t hate me unless I give you reason to.”

“I don’t hate you. Why do you think I was kissing you a minute ago?”

“Oh, but kissing is such an easy thing to do.”

“It’s the
best
I can do right now!”

“That’s fine, but I want an apology for those terrible things you said to me.”

“I only meant you shouldn’t give me advice on love and marriage. You’ve never been married! You’ve never really been in love!”

“But I know what I want.” He held out his hands. What he said next was a shock to them both. “I want to marry you, Agnes.”

She froze, staring at him as if he were crazy. Then a look of understanding dawned on her face, and she burst into laughter. “You sure know how to change the mood,” she said between chortles, swaying as if the sheer absurdity of his proposal made her weak. “That’s the best thing you could have said. All right, truce! You and me get married—agggh!” She shook her head and bent over, laughing harder.

John stared at her in dismay. He didn’t know why he’d proposed. He’d had a feeling all along that things were going to explode in some unpredictable way between
him and Agnes, some way neither of them could imagine yet. This was proof of it. But he knew one thing right now, as he examined his bruised emotions.

She thought he was kidding.

To his amazement, he wasn’t.

Six

On a Saturday night in the height of the spring tourist season the Conquistador Pub was so crowded with tourists it threatened to fall off its weathered gray pilings into the bay. The Jimmy Buffet imitator working the tiny corner stage had his amplifier turned up louder than usual, and a delivery boy handed Aggie a flowering cactus. She halted in the middle of her busy chores and lost all her concentration.

Prickly
, the accompanying note said.
But lovely when it blooms
.

Aggie shoved the cactus into a back corner of the bar, crumpled the notecard and poked it into the red-clay pot, then stood staring blankly at the plant, a grin on her face.

“Whozit from?” growled the bar’s owner, a middle-aged man with crew-cut gray hair, a Navy insignia tattooed on one beefy bicep, and a big, sweet heart under his attitude. Retired Chief Petty Officer Oscar Rattinelli, “Rat” to those willing to risk a broken face, peered over her shoulder as he waited for a blender to finish churning up a Pink Rum Punch.

“Guy named John Bartholomew.” Aggie flipped a beer glass under the tap on the wall next to John’s gift
cactus. “Been staying at my campground for the past week.”

“Decent?”

“Too decent.”

“Why?”

“Asked me to marry him.” Oscar nearly dropped the blender. “He
what?”

“He asked me to marry him. One week ago, he asked me.”

“What’d you say?”

She handed the frosty mug of beer to a customer at the packed bar, smoothly pivoting around three hundred pounds of stunned Oscar. “I laughed harder than I’ve laughed in years.”

“What’d he say then?”

“Said he wished a seam would pop in my swimsuit.”

“How d’ya know he was just kidding about the marriage stuff?”

“He’s got class. He was only trying to make a point.”

“Whatzat?”

“That he’s got class.”

“Oh. I’m confused.”

“He respects me. That’s what.”

“Oh. He better. Papa Rattinelli would break all his fingers, if you say the word.”

“Nah. But thanks.” She patted Oscar’s enormous shoulder with her free hand while she poured a shooter of whiskey for another customer.

“I have to take care of you. You’re the best bartender I’ve ever had. And the prettiest. And the only one who didn’t quit the first time I yelled at her.”

“I yell back.”

“That’s why you’re special. If I had a daughter, I’d want her to yell just like you.”

“You’re sweeter than key-lime pie for worrying about me. But don’t. John is a cross between Prince Charles
and a Boy Scout. He helps little old ducks cross the road.”

“Whatzis? He’s helping out around your lake?”

“Yeah. And the old folks love him as much as the old ducks do. He rebuilt the carburetor on the Cranshaws’ Winnebago.”

“They’re back again for another whole season?”

“Yeah. Just like the past four years. I gave them the same deal they had with Grandpa—free use of a site and utilities in return for supervising the whole campground. They collect fees, keep the place cleaned up, and call me if any of the other guests get rowdy.”

“And they like this Bartholomew guy too, huh?”

She nodded vaguely and muttered to herself, “Funny, I wouldn’t have thought he’d know how to fix a carburetor. Especially after the model train thing.”

“Model train thing?”

“I did an interview with Squid Davis at the toy shop. John went with me. Oscar, if you owned a chain of hobby shops that sold, among other things, model trains, wouldn’t you know better than to lay your car keys on Squid’s electrified track?”

“I guess. Is that what John did?”

“Yeah. Blew a fuse in Squid’s control box. Nearly derailed the whole Gulf and Western freight line.”

“And this John guy claims to be a model train expert?”

“Said he only
owns
the shops. He doesn’t actually build model trains himself.”

“Executive type, huh?”

“Very uppercrust British executive type. But an outdoorsman too.”

“So he’s spending his whole vacation at your campground?”

“No, he’s spending it building a back porch on my house.”

“Why?”

“He likes porches.”

“What does he do besides build porches?”

“Quotes Greek philosophers. Discusses medieval history. Plays a fine game of Monopoly. Cheats at cards, but he admits it. Cleans barns, charms lady horses.”

“Charms lady horses?”

“Yeah. All six of my mares have a crush on him. He’s a natural with them. And he’s already got my new colt halter broken.”

“Sounds like he’s got you halter broken too.”

Speechless, she considered Oscar’s observation. He was probably right. When she wasn’t with John all she did was think about him, and every day she became more willing to tag along behind him as docilely as Dottie’s new colt. But she wasn’t going to admit that to anyone. She playfully flicked a bar towel at Oscar. “Nah. I can’t get rid of him, that’s all.”

“You’re smiling again.”

Her expression fell. “Yeah. Can’t stop,” she said grimly. “That’s the problem.”

“What you gonna do?”

“Take him to a nice restaurant tomorrow night, for one thing. Spend every free minute in the next three weeks with him, for another. Keep smiling till he leaves.”

“Where’s he going?”

“Home. To Merry Old England.”

“Oh. What’ll you do then?”

Aggie pulled the cactus forward and stroked its pink blossoms. She angled her face so Oscar wouldn’t see how upset she was. “Wake up and stop dreaming.”

If any of his old friends in London knew he’d proposed marriage to a woman he’d met little more than a week ago, they’d place bets on his sanity. John wouldn’t blame them. While driving through the dusky evening
down a pleasant St. Augustine boulevard lined with shops and palm trees he struggled with the question that had bothered him all week.

He’d gone too far with his deception. He hadn’t had to propose marriage to win her confidence! He was working steadily toward that goal and making progress every day. Proposing out of the blue to her had been the most bewildering thing he’d done in his whole life. How low would he sink to charm her? It was despicable, asking her to marry him.

But he hadn’t been thinking about his motives when he’d asked her. He’d only been thinking that it was the right thing to want.

The hot sun must have gotten to him. He had to keep his feelings under control. He had to stop spending most of his waking hours thinking about her, missing her when she went to work at the pub, and wondering how in hell he was ever going to smooth things over when she found out what he was really after.

She was a tough bird to catch. The toughest. If he’d
really
been serious about marrying her, he’d have made sure she was ready to accept; he’d have been smoother, more persuasive, wouldn’t he?

John cursed out loud and acknowledged the truth. He’d have gone about it exactly the way he had. And been rejected.

And been hurt. Absurd! John shook his head, then slapped the Jeep’s steering wheel. He’d been a fool for blurting out the stupid proposal.

Following her directions to the newspaper office, John turned the Jeep off a boulevard fronted by the bay, where sailboats and cabin cruisers lolled among shrimp boats. Some were waiting for passage through the Bridge of Lions.

The beauty of Agnes’s hometown suddenly made his brooding worse. John whipped the Jeep down a narrow side street crowded with clapboard pastel houses nearly
hidden behind flowering trees and vines. Colorful little boutique signs peeked out from their verandas and upper balconies. In the heart of the downtown tourist district it was hard to tell where historic colonial buildings ended and modern copies began.

By the time he located the newspaper office he was so frustrated he slammed the Jeep’s front tire against the curb as he parked.

He gritted his teeth and tried to force a cheerful mood as he strode onto the house’s white stoop, angling between huge stone pots bursting with red geraniums. He pushed open a narrow white door with
Matanzas Bay Weekly News
painted on the window.

Inside the cheerful little place was a front counter bearing a stack of last week’s papers and a bowl of candy. Beyond the counter were several desks topped with computer terminals and other paraphernalia. The walls were covered in framed front pages of special editions. With grim amusement he noted a particular headline.

Local Ducks Run Afowl of Citizens
.

The room’s only occupant was a small brunette woman who looked doll-like in a pink jumpsuit and bright pink earrings. She hopped up from a desk and came quickly to the counter. “You must be John!”

He buried his bad mood and forced what he hoped was a pleasant smile. “John Bartholomew, yes. What gave me away?”