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“But I didn’t love him. And he didn’t love me, not really.”
“Yeah, I know. But most of the folks around here don’t see what love’s got to do with twenty million dollars.”
Natalie sighed and gathered two baskets in each hand, shoving the hatchback shut with her elbow.
“Well, if they don’t know, I can’t explain it to them.” She nodded toward the café. “Let’s get these inside. Your customers are probably wondering where you are.”
When she climbed the first step, though, she realized that Theo was lagging behind. “Come on, Theo.” Her sunglasses were crawling down on her nose. She tilted her head back, trying to make them slide into place. She couldn’t stand the nuclear glare of the sun. “These plants are kind of heavy, you know.”
“I know. But before we go in, I probably should tell you—”
“What?”
“We’ve got a new customer. New in town, I mean. Good-looking guy. He’s in there now.”
Natalie groaned. Theo was the Glen’s most energetic matchmaker. “Theo, I’m not in the market for a new man yet. Especially not today. Look at me. My jeans are dirty, my head is splitting, and I’m about one wrong move from either puking or fainting. I don’t care how handsome he is. Please, please, please don’t introduce me to him.”
Theo looked strangely tongue-tied—a first for the crusty old woman. She fiddled with the ferns, untangling a couple of soft fronds, not looking at Natalie.
“I don’t think I have to,” she said. “I think you’ve already met him.”
“I have?” Natalie glanced toward the glossy red door, which was flanked by tubs full of bright yellow marigolds supplied by Natalie’s own nursery. “When?”
Theo looked up. “Well…tell me, girl. How much do you actually remember about yesterday?”
“I—” Natalie started. “I remember everything,” she whispered.
“Everything?”
“Every embarrassing minute of it. Up to and including—” She swallowed. “Oh, no.”
Theo nodded sympathetically. “Oh, yes. Up to and including the handsome Matthew Quinn.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, Natalie was still trying to calm herself down with a mental barrage of reassurances.
It wasn’t really such a disaster, was it? Actually, this made her day a whole lot easier. She had planned to try to track Matthew Quinn down sometime this afternoon anyhow.
It was just that she had hoped to wait a few hours, until her eyes weren’t quite so bloodshot. She had wanted one more shower, to banish any lingering whiff of stale liquor…or worse.
She had planned to put on her navy-blue suit, and panty hose, and maybe even makeup. She had intended to tightly French-braid her unruly hair. She had desperately wanted to look professional, sober and sane—well, as sane as any Granville ever could.
Instead, she was going to have to meet him like this. In her working jeans, with her head made of glass and her stomach made of Slinky springs.
Oh heck. Maybe it was for the best. This was how she really looked. If she couldn’t persuade Matthew Quinn to help her without the aid of a suit and panty hose, maybe he wasn’t the perfect man after all.
He was sitting in the back, reading the newspaper. Probably looking at the classified ads, she thought. Hunting for a job, no doubt, now that he’d decided he didn’t want the one she was offering.
She continued hanging the ferns on the hooks above the front windows. She tried not to look at him too much—it would be bad for her concentration. But she was relieved to see that he looked the same, even now that she wasn’t viewing him through the rosy fumes of an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
He was very tall, well over six feet. Maybe a touch too thin, as if no one fed him right, but still pleasantly powerful, especially those broad, squared-off shoulders.
Healthy, thick brown hair, with a touch of wave that he didn’t bother to subdue. She’d be willing to bet he didn’t own a single can of mousse or hair spray. Call her old fashioned, but she hated a guy who used more hair products than she did. Which, in her case, amounted to one generic brand of combination shampoo and conditioner and a brush. Serious vanity required more time—and more money—than she could spare.
She couldn’t see his eyes from here. But she remembered them. Hazel eyes, with dark, thick lashes. Gorgeous eyes, but more than that. Smart eyes. And best of all, kind eyes.
She didn’t pay much attention to men’s clothes—or women’s either, for that matter—but she sensed that he hadn’t spent a lot of money on his jeans and plain white cotton shirt. Some of the pinup boys around here could take lessons. They spent obscene amounts on their designer outfits, and they didn’t look half as good as Matthew Quinn.
Of course he had the advantage of being naturally sexy as all get-out. She had dreamed about him off and on last night, and, with the whiskey pretty much acting like chloroform on her inhibitions, it had been a fairly X-rated evening.
Not that she’d ever in a million years tell him about that. It would scare him off for sure. And she didn’t intend to act on her fantasies. She was looking for a handyman, not a boyfriend. It was only important because it proved that he truly was special. She didn’t have X-rated dreams very often, which she now realized was rather a shame.
At that moment he glanced up. He seemed to be looking for a waitress, but, even though she was high on a chair hanging the last fern, he spotted her.
For a few long seconds he waited, as if he weren’t sure whether it was polite to admit yesterday had ever happened. So, to put the question to rest, she smiled. And then, slowly, he smiled back.
Gosh. She nearly fell off her chair when her knees threatened to go soft on her. She didn’t want to act like a gushing teenage groupie or anything, but he had a wonderful, summery smile. It was full of sunlight and warmth.
Oh, yes. Drunk or not, her instincts had been so right yesterday. This man was special. He was perfect.
And she wasn’t leaving the Candlelight Café until he agreed to come and work for her.
She climbed down carefully, whisking debris from the front of her jeans. She swiped at her hair, hoping she could dislodge any small green flecks of fern from her curls. And then she made her way to his table.
“Hi,” she said, suddenly aware that every woman should have her own personal scriptwriter. There must be something witty and sophisticated she could say to sweep them past this awkward moment. But her mind remained a stubborn, gawky blank. “How are you?”
“Great,” he said, still smiling. He put the newspaper politely down, giving her his full attention. “How about you?”
He didn’t put any particular emphasis on the question, but she flushed anyhow.
“I feel absolutely gruesome,” she said. Why not be honest? She had a strong feeling that they could be friends, that they would work well together, but not if she started out with a phony facade. “And terribly embarrassed. I wanted to apologize for yesterday. You were wonderful. A real knight in shining armor. And I was a complete mess. Absolutely disgusting. I don’t even think I thanked you properly for saving my life.”
He shook his head. “You were cute and completely charming, not at all disgusting. And you thanked me several times, even though your life was never in the least bit of danger.”
He drank some coffee, raising his eyebrows over the rim. “Actually,” he said, “I got the idea that maybe the rougher stages were yet to come. Maybe your friend Stuart got the worst of it?”
She caught herself smiling. “I’m afraid he might have.” She sighed. “I don’t remember all of it, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to buy him a new pair of shoes.”
“Uh-oh.” But Matthew’s eyes were sparkling, and she could tell he found the whole episode more amusing than appalling. That was a good sign. At least he wasn’t one of those stuffy prigs who put women on pedestals and lost interest if they ever got sick or dirty or tired or bitchy. Or drunk.
Not that she got drunk very often. Yesterday was her first time ever, and it would probably be the last. But in the nursery business you were always dirty. And sometimes, not often, she did catch herself being a little bit bitchy.
Theo appeared at the table. She put a plate of banana-walnut pancakes in front of Matthew, and a large fresh orange juice in front of Natalie.
“I didn’t order anything,” Natalie said, glancing over at her meaningfully.
“I know you didn’t.” Theo crossed her arms. “But you need vitamin C for that hangover.” She turned to Matthew. “And you could use two or three more pounds of meat on those bones. So no arguments from either of you. Just eat up.”
Natalie lifted her glass with a resigned sigh. “You might as well take a bite,” she told Matthew. “Theo won’t budge from that spot until she gets her way.”
Matthew smiled suddenly. “You’re Theo?”
Even the notoriously immune older woman melted a little under the wattage of that smile. She unfolded her arms. “Theodosia Burke. I own the café.”
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Matthew said. “I was sorry to see the flyer about your dog. Have you found him yet?”
“No, not yet.” Obviously pleased by Matthew’s concern, she dug in her crisp white apron and pulled out an extra copy of the picture. “Here. If you’d keep your eyes peeled for him, I’d appreciate it. The fool animal is going deaf. No telling what trouble he might get into.”
Matthew took the flyer. “I’ll be glad to,” he said. “I know you must be worried.”
“Yes. Well. Eat up.” Taking Matthew’s check, Theo slipped it into her apron pocket. “Breakfast’s on the house,” she said gruffly.
She started to move on to the next table, but suddenly she turned back and gave Natalie a steady look. “And just for the record, I don’t think you’re having a Granville moment, whatever Stuart Leith says. I think your judgment is just fine on this one.”
Natalie flushed, hoping Matthew couldn’t decode that little message. For as long as she could remember, Glenners had described her family’s idiosyncrasies as “Granville moments.” When her grandfather had bought a pair of giraffes to lope across the Summer House lawns, it had been a “Granville moment.” The helicopter pad, the dance-hall strumpet installed as the children’s governess, the bootleg whiskey fermenting in the bathtub, all historic Granville moments.
She had grown up on the story of her great-great-grandfather, who had declared war on the city of Firefly Glen and established a cannon on the mountain ledge overlooking the town. Apparently the Glenners had largely ignored it, observing placidly that the old man was clearly having a “Granville moment.”
She studied Matthew’s face to see what he thought of Theo’s cryptic parting comment. But she couldn’t quite read the expression. She didn’t know him well enough, not yet. He merely seemed to be enjoying his pancakes.
Okay, it was now or never. She took a big gulp of the orange juice and launched her attack.
“Anyhow, I did want to apologize. But I also wanted to see if there’s any way I can talk you into accepting the handyman position.”
She saw him look up and prepare to speak, but she rushed on, hoping she could forestall another refusal. “I know it probably seemed like the job from hell yesterday, what with me acting so goofy and the house being such a mess. But I want you to know that I’m really not a lush. In fact, I don’t drink at all. Granvilles never drink. They have no head for alcohol whatsoever.”
He smiled. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely. So you don’t need to worry that I’ll be forever falling off things and landing in your arms.” She swallowed, aware that this wasn’t coming out quite right. “And about the house. It is pretty awful, that’s obvious. But I wouldn’t expect any major repairs. I can’t afford anything major right now anyhow. All I can afford is some routine maintenance. Just a bandage over the wound.”
“Natalie, I do appreciate the offer, but—”
“Please.” She wrapped her hands around her glass hard. “Please don’t say no until you’ve heard me out. I live out there all alone. It’s a huge place, a huge responsibility. New problems pop up every day. I can do some of it. I do a lot, actually. I have for years. But right now I need help.”
“Natalie, I’m really not your man. I’m not here for the long haul. I’m only in Firefly Glen for the summer, and—”
“That’s okay. I’m not asking you to commit long-term. But couldn’t you try it for a couple of weeks? I’ll pay you a month in advance. And if you don’t like it, or if you still feel it’s a mistake, you can leave, no questions asked. The salary is low, but the pool-house apartment is included, and meals, too.”
He was looking at her sadly, as if he hated to disappoint her. But he had stopped trying to inject a firm no into her monologue, so that had to be a good sign.
“It wasn’t just the liquor talking yesterday,” she said, gathering courage. He was tempted, she could tell. “I really think we could get along well together. I think we’d make a great team.”
“Natalie. You don’t even know me. You don’t know the first thing about my skills. What if I can’t even hammer a nail straight?”
“Nonsense.” She shook her head. “You’re not clumsy. You have strong, graceful hands, and you know how to use them.”
“What if I’m weak—or lazy?”
“Give me a break. With those muscles? You forget, I know exactly how strong you are. Strong enough to catch a falling woman in midair and never miss a beat.”
He smiled, but his expression sobered almost instantly. “Then what about my character? You’re inviting me to live in your home without any proof I’m not a liar or a thief or a crazed serial killer. What about references? What about my past?”
“I’ll call your references if you want me to. But I make my best decisions when I simply follow my instincts. I can’t help it. My grandfather used to say ‘Granvilles always go with their gut’ and he was right. In fact, the only really bad choices I’ve ever made were when I ignored my instincts.”
She thought about Bart. She’d known from the start that a loveless marriage was a terrible idea. But she’d allowed other people to persuade her that twenty million dollars could be awfully darn lovable. Even her grandfather, on his deathbed, had recommended Bart as the answer.
But in her heart she’d known all along it would be a disaster. Breaking the engagement was the best decision she’d ever made.
Until this one.
Matthew seemed lost in his own thoughts, too. He stared at her for a long moment, rotating his spoon slowly through his fingers, like a card player tickling an ace. She couldn’t help watching—it was such a perfect example of the grace she’d mentioned earlier.
Finally he spoke.
“I have something I need to tell you,” he said, his voice low and grave. “Something you should know before you push this any further.”
She nodded, almost afraid to hope. But he didn’t look like a man who was trying to find a way to say no anymore. He looked like a man who was trying to find a way to say yes.
He took a deep breath and began.
“It’s simple, really. Simple and ugly. I just got out of prison.”
She could see that he expected some reaction. A recoil of horror, perhaps? An ‘eek’ as if she’d seen a ghost? He must not know that her great-grandfather had been in jail four times for bootlegging, and her grandmother’s brother had shot his best friend over a soprano. And the ancestor with the cannon had refused to pay taxes for decades.
Granvilles didn’t scare that easily. So she just looked at him and waited.
“I got out less than a month ago,” he went on finally. “I served three years of a five-year sentence at the New York State Penitentiary.”
“Why?” It seemed an inadequate reaction, but it was the only one she could come up with. “What did you do?”
“Embezzling. Grand larceny. There were actually several counts, with several fancy names. The short version is that I owned a financial consulting firm. I was good at picking investments, and I made a lot of money for a lot of people. But my partner…”
He set his jaw hard, and his brown eyes were suddenly black. “The money disappeared. All of it. Millions and millions of dollars. My partner went to South America, and I went to prison.”
The simplicity of his delivery was her best clue. He was in a lot of pain, and he was afraid that if he said any more the pain might show.
“But you didn’t take the money, did you? Your partner took it, isn’t that right?” She leaned across the table. “You aren’t an embezzler just because he’s an embezzler.”
Matthew took a long drink of coffee, as if his throat was very dry. “A jury of my peers found otherwise,” he said, and she heard the dark note of bitterness under the words. “And the New York State prison system didn’t seem to think there were any substantive distinctions, either. They found us equally to blame.”
He set the cup down carefully and turned his shadowed eyes her way. “So, there it is.”
Yes, there it was. She could almost feel the anger and bitter resentment radiating out from him. It pulsed across the table and touched her in thick, black waves. But she felt other things, too. She felt the loneliness, the courage, the shock of betrayed trust. The pure injustice and pain.
It was a lot to take in, almost too much.
She hoped she wouldn’t start crying. He would never understand. He might think she cried out of pity, when really they would be tears of indignation. What a bastard his partner must have been. How could any man leave a friend to pay so heavy a price?
“So what do you say, Natalie Granville? What is your gut telling you now?”
Somehow she managed to smile. “Right now my gut is telling me that we’d better hurry. It’s a statistical fact that every eight-point-two minutes another piece of Summer House falls apart. While we were discussing this nonsense, I probably lost the entire west wall of the Blue Bedroom.”
“Natalie, this isn’t nonsense. It’s real. I am a convicted felon. You could be—”
She sighed heavily. “For heaven’s sake! Let’s cut to the chase. Just give me a yes or no answer. If you accept this job, will you do your best to fix up my crazy old house?”
“I can’t—”
“Yes or no answer.”
He nodded cautiously. “Yes.”
“Are you going to try to cheat me?”
“No.”
“Rob me? Steal all my expensive stuff?”
He smiled just a little. “Do you have expensive stuff?”
She grinned. “Not a bit. But if I did, would you steal it?”
“No.”
“And would you ever physically hurt me?”
He took a breath. “Never.”
She stood up and held out her hand. “Then, as I tried to tell you yesterday, Matthew Quinn, you’re hired.”
Slowly he rose to his feet. Even more slowly, he accepted her outstretched hand. His grip was strong and sure and safe, and she smiled, thinking how lucky she was that the world’s most amazing handyman had somehow found his way to her rickety old door.
She was sorry for his sake that prison had brought him to this moment, but for one fleeting instant, selfishly, for her own sake, she was glad.
“Okay, then. It’s settled. Can you move in tomorrow morning?”
Gradually his own smile grew less strained. And he nodded. “I don’t see why not.”
“Great. I’ll be waiting for you.”
She picked up her glass and downed the last of the orange juice. Theo was so smart. Her hangover had completely, miraculously, disappeared.
“Natalie,” Matthew called out as she started to walk away.
She paused. “What?”
“I have to know. Why was that statue wearing a wedding dress yesterday?”
She shook her head, chuckling.
“I’ll tell you all about it someday,” she said. “Right now I can only say that I must have been having a Granville moment.”
He laughed softly. “The world will say you’re having another Granville moment now, hiring me.”
She shrugged, still smiling.
“Let it,” she said. “The world has been wrong before.”
CHAPTER FOUR
MATTHEW ARRIVED at Summer House early, not wanting to give himself time to reconsider. He had hardly slept, staring at the hotel ceiling all night as he fought a twitchy, irrational urge to bolt, just to jump in the car and head north. Or south. Or anywhere. Anywhere else.
Maybe it came from those three years caged in an eight-by-eight cell, but the idea of being tied down made him crazy. Even a casual, short-term arrangement like this job for Natalie Granville left him short of breath, as if a noose had been looped around his neck.
He should have said no.
Freedom. Freedom was everything.
But it was also relative. If he didn’t work at Summer House, he still had to work somewhere. Down in Florida, his sister and her husband were waiting patiently, hoping he would accept their generous offer of a job managing one of their family restaurants. And back in New York City, his parole officer was waiting, too, less patiently. Matthew’s early release had been conditioned on his finding gainful employment outside the world of finance within the month.
Yes, it was Florida—with his sister’s smothering solicitude and his brother-in-law’s silent disapproval—or it was some quick, anonymous job like this one.
So he’d gotten up early, called his sister to tell her he was fine but that he was taking a summer job up here, to give himself time to think things over, time to clear his head.
And then he’d driven straight to Summer House.
But apparently he was too early. Natalie had left a note on the front door, in that same frilly calligraphy that had led him to her in the first place.
“Darn! I missed you!” the note said, and Matthew could almost hear her voice in the exclamation points. “Follow signs to pool house and settle in. Back absolutely ASAP.”
He followed the silly pink sticky notes, which were affixed every few feet to whatever was available—outstretched hands of statues, terra-cotta pots, tendrils of ivy. They led him toward the eastern side of the house, through the mildewed grotto— God, what a wreck!—and out toward the monstrous, dry hole in the ground that had once been the lavish swimming pool.
He paused there, peering in, noting its broken, cavernous walls and steeply sloping floor. An elaborate mosaic had been inlaid into the finish, but so many small pieces were missing that it looked like a half-done jigsaw puzzle, and Matthew couldn’t quite tell what the picture was.
Good grief, he thought, shaking his head. The place was even worse than he’d thought. He definitely should have said no. The best handyman in the world couldn’t help. Natalie Granville should just rent a bulldozer and start over.
The pool house was on the far side of the cracked deck and it was, predictably, just as run-down as the rest of the crazy old mansion.
His duffel bag held lightly in one hand, Matthew stood before the beautiful ruin. It reminded him, with its marble columns and formal pediments, of a small, abandoned temple.
Mold mottled the walls. Early-morning sunlight streamed through holes in the roof, spotlighting foot-high weeds that grew up in the cracked floor tiles. And two of the three white columns had curiously jagged missing chunks, as if a dragon had sampled them for lunch.
It was picturesque and broody and probably uncomfortable as hell. Oh yeah, he positively should have said no.
But Natalie’s final pink note fluttered on the front door.
Hurray! You found it! The words were followed by three more exclamation points and a smiley face. “Welcome home!”
He peeled the note off and held it in his hand, shaking his head in silent amazement. Where on earth did a woman like Natalie Granville, who should have been thoroughly oppressed by her dilemma, find so much enthusiasm?
And besides, Summer House wasn’t his home. He didn’t have a home.
“I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”
He turned toward the sound of the voice. It was Natalie, looking clean and sober and surprisingly professional in a pale blue linen suit. In fact, she looked so different from the disheveled, half-naked eccentric who had fallen into his arms that at first he hardly recognized her.