Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (192 page)

A man snored. Turning her head, she saw Ben sleeping soundly beside her. Carefully, she raised herself up on one elbow and surveyed his body. He was perfection. She wanted to draw him. She’d ask him to sit for her; he would be her next charcoal, but would she be able to sell it? Which angle should she draw him from? From the side, the high barrel of his ribs rose, concealing his private heart, then his skin slid tautly down to his flat belly. A trail of hair led beneath the band of his briefs.

His legs were very long. His torso was long also. His feet were bony and enormous. What if she drew him straight-on? The whole person—head, shoulders, torso, pelvis, legs …

Sitting up, she cocked her head and considered. The sun illuminated every aspect of his body. She scooted to the bottom of the bed and tilted over his feet, studying him from this angle.

He opened his eyes. “Um, hello?”

Natalie jumped. “Oh!”

“I don’t even want to imagine what you’re doing.” He stretched, his long bones elegant.

“I want to draw you.”

“
That’s
what you want to do with me?”

She lay down on her side next to him. He turned onto his side, facing her.

“How do you feel?” she asked him.

“Fine. You?”

“Fine, too. It’s so odd. I thought I’d have a crashing hangover. I’m glad I kept drinking water last night.” She put one fingertip on his hand. “Thank you for driving.”

“You’re welcome.” He turned his hand over and captured her hand. “I have an idea.”

“Oh, gosh.”

“Actually, it’s really a dare.”

“That sounds scary.”

His eyes were as blue as summer.

“I dare you to spend the day with me without mentioning your art.”

She drew back. “Huh?”

He repeated his dare. “And I’ll go all day without mentioning my work.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I think you’re trying to make a point.”

“Which would be?”

Crankily, she twitched her shoulders. “That our work is part of us. Maybe even the most interesting part of us, or the
defining
part of us.” Suddenly she brightened. “Did you say we’ll spend all day together?”

“If you’d like.” He let go of her hand and slid his palm along her wrist, up her arm to her shoulder.

Everything changed in the intensity of that moment of physical connection. Her chest and neck went rosy with a flush that flashed up her cheeks. “I know a way we could get to know each other without
using any words at all,” she murmured, inching her body toward his.

“Oh, I’ll make you use words,” Ben said.

Afterward, they slept again, wrapped in each other’s arms. Natalie woke to a snuffling sound—her nose pressed against Ben’s chest. She rolled away from him and smiled up at the ceiling.

He had made her use words.

Mostly, his name.
Ben. Ben
.

As if she’d spoken aloud, calling him, he opened his eyes. “Good morning.”

She snuggled against him. “I’ll say.”

He gently pushed her shoulder back. “I don’t want to be rude or, God forbid, unromantic, but I’m starving.”

She realized she was, too. They pulled on their underwear and padded barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“I’ll make eggs,” Ben announced. Opening the refrigerator, he peered inside. “With cheese and stuff.”

“You can cook?”

“I live alone. I usually do cook for myself. Besides, I like to cook.”

“Oh, right, I suppose it’s sort of like chemistry for you.” She filled the glass coffeepot with water and poured it into the reservoir. “Do you like your coffee strong?”

“I do. With a spot of milk, no sugar.”

He cracked eggs into a bowl, grated cheese, chopped vegetables. Natalie set utensils and napkins on the table, poured orange juice, prepared his coffee, and set it next to him.

They ate quickly, not talking.

Natalie cocked her head at him. She was going to try to stick to the dare. “How do you usually eat your breakfast?”

He looked puzzled. “With a fork and knife. I raise my hand from the plate to my m—”

“That’s not what I meant!” she protested, laughing. “I mean, do you eat cereal standing over the sink before rushing to work?”

He thought for a moment. “No. I like a big breakfast. With protein.
I usually make eggs and bacon, or cream cheese and salmon on a bagel. I like to fuel up in the morning because later I sometimes forget to eat. I usually watch CNN while I eat. Catch up on the news of the world. See if anyone’s solved the energy problem while I slept.” He neatly laid his knife and fork on his empty plate. “What about you?”

“Coffee for me, first. The biggest cup in the house. Orange juice while I wait for it to brew. I take my coffee up to my studio and get to work.” She skipped ahead. “I don’t usually eat until around lunchtime.”

“Do you like to cook?”

“I don’t know, really. I’ve waitressed so much, I’ve always had my biggest meal wherever I worked, and of course in New York I usually grabbed takeout. Your mother’s such a wonderful cook, so you probably learned from her without even thinking about it.”

“What about your mother?”

“Oh.” Natalie flipped her hand, waving her mother away. “She was more interested in making dog food.”

“Tell me about her.” Ben leaned forward, elbows on the table.

Natalie rose, got herself another cup of coffee, and looked out the window. “It’s a perfect day. We could go swimming.”

“Or you could tell me about your mother.”

Natalie sank back down in her chair. As concisely as possible, she described her early life: her father leaving, her mother and the bulldogs, the ramshackle house on a dirt road outside a depressed town in rural Maine.

“Your mother must have been pretty strong,” Ben said. “And brave. Raising two kids alone without financial support, or any kind of support, from their father.”

Natalie murmured, “I never thought of Mom as strong. Louise said the same thing, though, so maybe I wasn’t fair to her.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

Natalie made a scoffing noise. “Meet my mother? Ben. She’s not a thing like your mother. She’s a tough old bird.”

“She would have to be, wouldn’t she?”

“Are you trying to be contrary?”

“I’m trying to get to know you.”

“My mother never once encouraged me in my desire to be an artist. In fact, she discouraged me. That’s what you need to know.”

“Your mother probably knew that artists seldom support themselves financially. I’ll bet she worried about that.” Ben’s voice softened. “Is she pretty, like you?”

Natalie quirked her mouth sideways. “I guess. Slade and I look like our father. He’s handsome, like Slade. Or he was, when he was younger. I don’t know what he looks like now.”

Ben carried his plate to the sink, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher. “Let’s go for a sail.”

She stood next to him, looking out the window. “If we leave this house to go down to the beach together, your entire family will know where you spent the night.”

Ben drew her against him with an easy hug. “I don’t think they’ll be too surprised.”

Morgan phoned Natalie and Bella first thing Monday morning.

“Drinks here at five,” she told them. “Josh won’t be home until dark probably, and I’m going to have Felicity take Petey to her house to play so she won’t be able to hear anything we say.”

The O’Keefes’ deck reflected, like the rest of their house, what they thought it
should
reflect: expense, striking lines, originality. The chairs were Lafuma, from Europe, tightly tailored, bright turquoise or cranberry mesh, with padded headrests and “integrated suspension.” A wrought iron table with matching chairs filled one corner of the deck, an umbrella opened over it for protection from the sun, and next to the various lounge chairs were heavy glass tables on wrought iron stands to hold drinks and munchies. Privately, Morgan thought she’d barf if she saw another potted geranium on a deck, which the Barnabys and even Natalie had set out. She had gone to a garden shop and bought a lemon tree, an orange tree, and various striped grasses planted in terra-cotta containers.

“It’s like a little jungle here,” Bella remarked as she gently arranged her body in one of the contemporary lounge chairs.

Morgan looked at the grasses. To say they had flourished would be modest. “I suppose I should cut them back, trim them, or whatever.”

“They’re fabulous,” Natalie decreed. “And they provide a great screen. No one can see what’s going on up here.”

“Oh, have you tried?” Morgan teased.

“Why should I try?” Natalie shot back. “You’re an old married woman.”

“You’d be surprised.” Morgan arched an eyebrow.

“What?”
Bella tried to sit up but only managed to slip around.

Morgan looked pleased with herself. “Later. Right now I want to get the drinks. I’ll be right back.”

Morgan stalked into her kitchen. She was barefoot, in shorts and a halter top, her long hair yanked high on her head, held with one long pin.

It was still hot on the deck at five, but a summer breeze played over the water, swirling cooler air up around them. Flocks of clouds like white woolly lambs clustered and slowly rambled across the blue sky, and all around the lake, the trees and shrubbery were heavy, flush with summer green. It was a sated, verdant, satisfied time of year, everything juiced up on photosynthesis and plenty of rain, all the flowers so thick and rich they splayed their bright petals as if drunk on the sun.

On the deck, waiting for her drink, Natalie removed her painting shirt and hung it over the back of her chair. She was in her black bikini—she’d run out in the middle of the day for a quick, refreshing dip in the lake. Not a real swim, though, just a playful paddle near the shore. Bella had changed out of work clothes into a tiny pink sundress with spaghetti straps. She kicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes.

“I hope you worked today,” Bella told Natalie.

“I certainly did,” Natalie answered smugly.

Morgan returned, beaming. On a silver tray, she carried three very tall flutes filled with mouthwatering liquid.

“Peach Bellinis,” she announced. “Made with Prosecco, which is light on the alcohol, so we won’t get hung over. Plus, think of all the vitamins in peach nectar.” She set a flute on each side table, adding a plate covered with salted almonds, stuffed olives, and wasabi peas.

“Very nice,” Bella said, reaching for her drink.

Morgan sank into her own recliner. For a moment the three
women lay side by side looking out at the shimmering azure lake. Overhead, birds were beginning to wake from their hot afternoon siestas and sing their plans for the evening. Across the lake, a lawn mower hummed. The sun slanted down on their brown limbs.

“Sunblock, anyone?” Morgan asked.

“No thanks,” Natalie said. “I slathered myself before coming over.”

“Me, too,” Bella said.

“Okay, then.” Morgan lifted her glass. “Let’s toast. What shall we toast to? Bella’s?”

“We did that Saturday night,” Bella said. “Let’s toast to friendship.”

“To friendship!” They lifted their glasses but were too far apart to clink. They sipped. And sipped again.

“So, Bella,” Natalie asked. “How was your first real day at the shop?”

“Nothing like the opening, that’s for sure,” Bella told her. “No one came in until around eleven, and then, happily, it was some women who’d seen Penny’s jewelry. They each bought a piece.”

“That’s great,” Morgan said, stretching her long legs on the lounge chair.

“Yes,” Bella continued, “but then Shauna Webb came in with some more body parts.”

“Sorry, Bella,” Natalie said. “I think Shauna’s stuff is kind of creepy.”

“I know. I agree. Shauna was upset that no one bought anything of hers at the opening; plus, she brought in a box of other pieces she wanted me to add to what I’d put out.…” Bella took another sip of her drink. “I told her I didn’t want them.”

“Uh-oh,” Natalie commiserated. She could guess what was coming.

“Shauna flipped. She tried pointing out how unique her pieces are, and she tried getting mad at me, and she tried crying.… It was kind of awful, actually.”

“How did you handle it?” Morgan asked.

“I’m proud to report I was perfectly professional. I said I was
sorry, but it was apparent to me that Bella’s wasn’t the right venue for her work.” Bella tilted her head. “I was quite rational. I didn’t insult her. I didn’t get upset when she insulted me.”

“She insulted you?”

Bella smiled. “She called me a reactionary, soulless, lowbrow opportunist and a leech who lives off the lifeblood of artists.”

“Whoa!” Natalie cried.

“Nice,” Morgan added.

“I can understand. She needed to vent. She needed to save face. The good news is that she got so angry she insisted on taking everything out of the shop. She refused ever to set foot inside Bella’s again.”

“Were you really as calm with her as you seem?” Natalie asked.

“You know,” Bella announced, “I was. All my work with third graders came in handy.”

“Good for you,” Morgan said.

“Thanks. And this afternoon, Natalie, a woman came in with her husband. She’d been at the opening and loved your charcoals, and she wanted her husband to see them. They didn’t introduce themselves or buy anything, but they did stay for quite a while, studying the charcoals and talking about them. Are you drawing anything else?”