I admit I wondered about him. Of course, it was common knowledge that Fergus Calhoun was an ambitious and wealthy man, one who had turned a few dollars into an empire during the course of his life. He commanded both respect and fear in the business world. For that I cared nothing.
It was the private man who obsessed me. The man who had the right to call her wife. The man who lay beside her at night, who touched her. The man who knew the texture of her skin, the taste of her mouth. The man who knew how it felt to have her move beneath him in the dark.
I was already in love with her. Perhaps I had been from the moment I had seen her walking with the child through the wild roses.
It would have been best for my sanity if I had chosen another place to paint. I could not. Already knowing I would have no more of her, could have no more than a few hours of conversation, I went back. Again and again.
She agreed to let me paint her. I began to see, as an artist must see, the inner woman. Beyond her beauty, beyond her composure and breeding was a desperately unhappy woman. I wanted to take her in my arms, to demand that she tell me what had put that sad and haunted look in her eyes. But I only painted her. I had no right to do more.
I have never been a patient or a noble man. Yet with her, I found I could be both. Without ever touching me, she changed me. Nothing would be the same for me after that summer – that all too brief summer when she would come, to sit on the rocks and look out to sea.
Even now, a lifetime later, I can walk to those cliffs and see her. I can smell the sea that never changes, and catch the drift of her perfume. I have only to pick a wild rose to remember the fiery lights of her hair. Closing my eyes, I hear the murmur of the water on the rocks below and her voice comes back as clear and as sweet as yesterday.
I am reminded of the last afternoon that first summer, when she stood beside me, close enough to touch, as distant as the moon.
“We leave in the morning,” she said, but didn't look at me. “The children are sorry to go.”
“And you?”
A faint smile touched her lips but not her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve lived before. If my home was an island like this. The first time I came here, it was as if I had been waiting to see it again. I'll miss the sea.”
Perhaps it was only my own needs that made me think, when she glanced at me, that she would miss me, as well. Then she looked away again and sighed.
“New York is so different, so full of noise and urgency. It's hard to believe such a place exists when I stand here. Will you stay on the island through the winter?”
I thought of the cold and desolate months ahead and cursed fate for taunting me with what I could never have. “My plans change with my mood.” I said it lightly, fighting to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“I envy you your freedom,” She turned away then to walk back to where her nearly completed portrait rested on my easel. “And your talent. You've made me more than what I am.”
“Less” I had to curl my hands into fists to keep from touching her. “Somethings can never be captured with paint and canvas.” “What will you, call it?”
“Bianca. Your name’s enough.”
She must have sensed my feelings, though I tried desperately to hold them in myself. Something came into her eyes as she looked at me, and the look held longer than it should. Then she stepped back, cautiously, like a woman who had wandered too close to the edge ofa cliff.
“One day you'll be famous, and people will beg for your work.”
I couldn't take my eyes off her, knowing I might never see her again. “I don't paint for fame.”
“No, and that's why you'll have it. When you do, I'll remember this summer. Goodbye, Christian.”
She walked away from me – for what I thought was the last time – away from the rocks, through the wild grass and the flowers that fight through both for the sun.
Chapter Four
Coco Calhoun McPike didn't believe in leaving things up to chance particularly when her horoscope that day had advised her to take a more active part in a family matter and to visit an old acquaintance. She felt she could do both by paying an informal call on Holt Bradford.
She remembered him as a dark, hot-eyed boy who had delivered lobster and loitered around the village, waiting for trouble to happen. She also remembered that he had once stopped to change a flat for her while she'd been struggling on the side of the road trying to figure out which end of the jack to put under the bumper. He'd refused – stiffly, she recalled – her offer of payment and had hopped back on his motorcycle and ridden off before she'd properly thanked him.
Proud, defiant, rebellious, she mused as she maneuvered her car into his driveway. Yet, in a grudging sort of way, chivalrous. Perhaps if she was clever and Coco thought that she was – she could play on all of those traits to get what she wanted.
So this had been Christian Bradford's cottage, she mused. She'd seen it before, of course, but not since she'd known of the connection between the families. She paused for a moment. With her eyes closed she tried to feel something. Surely there was some remnant of energy here, something that time and wind hadn't washed away.
Coco liked to consider herself a mystic. Whether it was a true evaluation, or her imagination was ripe, she was certain she did feel some snap of passion in the air. Pleased with it, and herself, she trooped to the house.
She'd dressed very carefully. She wanted to look attractive, of course. Her vanity wouldn't permit otherwise. But she'd also wanted to look distinguished and just the tiniest bit matronly. She felt the old and classic Chanel suit in powder blue worked very well.
She knocked, putting what she hoped was a wise and comforting smile on her face. The wild barking , and the steady stream of curses from within had her placing a hand on her breast.
Five minutes out of the shower, his hair dripping and his temper curdled, Holt yanked open the door. Sadie bounded out. Coco squeaked. Good reflexes had Holt snatching the amorous dog by the collar before she could send Coco over the porch railing.
“Oh my.” Coco looked from dog to man, juggling the plate of double – fudge brownies. “Oh, goodness. What a very large dog. She certainly does look like our Fred, and I'd so hoped he'd stop growing soon. Why you could practically ride her if you liked, couldn't you?” She beamed a smile at Holt. “I'm so sorry, have I interrupted you?”
He continued to struggle with the dog, who'd gotten a good whiff of the brownies and wanted her share. Now. “Excuse me?”
“I've interrupted,” Coco repeated. “I know it's early, but on days like this I just can't stay in bed. All this sun and twittering birds. Not to mention the sawing and hammering. Do you suppose she'd like one of these?” Without waiting for an answer, Coco took one of the brownies off the plate. “Now you sit and behave.”
With what was certainly a grin, Sadie stopped straining, sat and eyed Coco adoringly.
“Good dog.” Sadie took the treat politely then padded back into the house to enjoy it. “Well, now.” Pleased with the situation, Coco smiled at Holt. “You probably don't remember me. Goodness, it's been years.”
“Mrs. McPike.” He remembered her, all right, though the last time he'd seen her, her hair had been a dusky blond. It had been ten years, he thought, but she looked younger. She'd either had a first – class face – lift or had discovered the fountain of youth.
“Why, yes. It's so flattering to be remembered by an attractive man. But you were hardly more than a boy the last time. Welcome home.” She offered the plate of brownies.
And left him no choice but to accept it and ask her in.
“Thanks.” He studied the plate as she breezed inside. Between plants and brownies, the Calhouns were making a habit of bearing gifts. “Is there something I can do for you?”
