It's a Wonderful Wife Page 2

  “Because Stanley said the sporty red Mercedes convertible I wanted wasn’t practical.”

  Jesse decided that Cadi Glace in a “little snit” was even more appealing. Not that he should be surprised, having found the woman a beautiful anomaly the first time he’d met her—which, now that he thought about it, was probably why she kept haunting his dreams. There’d been a distinct I-know-a-secret sparkle in those intelligent blue eyes when she’d politely shaken his hand three months ago only to then spend the next two hours as silent as the furniture. But when she’d stood up to say good-bye and dropped her sketchbook, he’d caught a glimpse of two of the pages before she’d snatched it up and quickly closed it, and discovered that instead of taking notes the woman had spent the entire meeting . . . doodling.

  Definitely a talented artist. One of the sketches, he now realized, had been of a tipped-over honey pot inside a hollow log. But it was the larger drawing on the opposite page that had vexed him at the time—and still did—as he couldn’t imagine why she’d drawn a large, scruffy dog covered in mud and busily chewing on a tattered boot.

  He’d give a year’s salary to know what had been on the other pages. Hell, considering her little confession of likening clients to fictional characters, he would buy Miss Glace that sporty red Mercedes for just five minutes with that notebook.

  Jesse heard the tired-sounding wail of an off-key siren not ten seconds before an ancient fire truck came barreling around the curve up ahead, followed by a parade of pickups and cars—as well as two equally ancient men on bicycles pedaling furiously to keep up. “That was quick.”

  “Not really,” she said on another sigh, “since there are probably more police scanners than televisions in town, which everyone listens to with bated breath waiting for something exciting to happen.”

  TWO

  It was nearly an hour later when the parade of vehicles Jesse was now part of reached what he could only describe as a classic Maine fishing village that hadn’t quite made it into the twenty-first century. A bit remote for tourist traffic, businesses evidently had to diversify to stay afloat, as Whistler’s Landing’s financial district consisted of a post office/convenience store/gas station, a diner/lounge/ice-cream parlor, and a gift shop/hardware/feed store. There was a large white building sporting a sign claiming it to be the Grange, the requisite bell-towered church, and a one-bay fire station attached to the town office. The residential section boasted a good two dozen homes crowded up against the rock-bound cove spilling in from the Gulf of Maine, at the center of which was a small working pier to service the three lobster boats bobbing on their moorings.

  In truth, Jesse was surprised the town was even on his navigation device.

  “There’s a large area down behind the office where you can park,” his passenger said as Jesse took his turn stopping at the intersection that didn’t even have a stop sign. “The driveway circles the building, so you don’t have to worry about turning the camper around to get out.”

  Jesse looked left and right, not exactly sure which way the office was, since he’d come in from the direction of Castle Cove the few times he’d been here—on the slightly wider but no less crooked road he still had to haul the camper across. Oh yeah; he’d definitely let his eagerness to see his house overrule his usually sharp mind. “Which way?” he asked.

  “Just follow everyone,” she said, gesturing to the right, “since they’re all going to the party.”

  So he’d gathered while standing in the peanut gallery watching the volunteer firemen efficiently douse the flames on the definitely totaled car. Miss Glace, however, had elected to remain in his truck while dealing with the sheriff and then receive blow-by-blow updates from the small gathering of female friends crowded around her. She’d also elected to ride into town with him despite those friends offering her a lift—Jesse presumed because she didn’t want to battle the balloons again. “Won’t everyone descending on Stanley before you get there ruin your surprise?” he asked as he turned right.

  “My car could have exploded right in front of the office and he wouldn’t have known, because he always closes the blinds and locks the door and plays opera music loud enough to rattle the windows when he’s drafting.” Her snit apparently over, she shot him a smile. “Since my father took Stanley on as a partner five years ago, I swear that poor old building has settled another six inches into the ground.”

  Instead of turning down the driveway when he spotted the peanut gallery reassembling in front of the familiar building, many of them now carrying pans of food, Jesse stopped in the middle of the road. “I’ll just drop you off and come back on Friday as planned,” he said at her questioning look. “I don’t want to crash your party.”

  “But you’re supposed to take the blame for the cake. And why come back in two days when you’re here now?”

  “I’d feel guilty for ruining Stanley’s evening, and I can’t wait until the party winds down for him to show me the plans, because I’d rather not drive that road to Castle Cove in the dark.”

  “Then just spend the night in the back driveway.”

  Jesse shook his head. “The camper is supposed to be loaded onto a barge tomorrow morning, and I still have to stock it with supplies.”

  And there was that I-know-a-secret smile he remembered, the one responsible for making those large blue eyes sparkle. “I happen to know there are two architectural models in there with your name on them,” she said in a conspirator’s whisper as she nodded toward the office. “One of your house, and the other one showing it sitting on Hundred Acre Isle.” She leaned closer. “And I also happen to have a key to the room where he keeps them.”

  “You’d sneak me in even though Stanley told me he doesn’t like showing clients anything until he’s certain a design works?” Jesse countered in mock surprise, deciding Cadi Glace in a playful mood was even more appealing. Which had him wondering if there might be something in the Maine air that was responsible for producing such interesting women, since his two sisters-in-law certainly hadn’t wasted any time captivating Sam and Ben.

  Miss Glace gestured toward the driveway when a horn honked behind them. “It’s the least I can do after you graciously protected me from my exploding car.” That sparkle intensified. “Trust me, Mr. Pooh, the moment you lay eyes on those models you’ll not only see a home that works perfectly but one that belongs tucked up against that southeast-facing bluff.”

  That surprised him, as he’d always pictured the house sitting on top of the high ridge at the north end of the island, where it would have a three-hundred-sixty-degree view. The horn honked again and Jesse put the truck back in gear. “Well, Ms. Rabbit, you definitely know how to catch a man’s interest.”

  “Rabbit?” she repeated, her smile disappearing.

  “If I remember correctly,” Jesse said, watching in his right side mirror to make sure the camper didn’t run over any partygoers as he turned down the driveway, “didn’t Winnie the Pooh have a scheming buddy named Rabbit?”

  That sparkle returned. “Ah, yes, Rabbit. If I remember correctly, he was the brains of the operation,” she said, deadpan, escaping out the door before he even shut off the engine.

  Unable to stifle a bark of laughter, Jesse quickly got out and hustled around the front of the truck to find Cadi Glace scowling again as she eyed the remaining balloons pressed up against the window in eager anticipation of being set free. He gently nudged her out of the way, determined to hold on to the elevated position of gracious hero rather than slow-witted bear. “You bring the cake and I’ll battle the balloons. I promise not to let them go even if the sea breeze sends us soaring over the trees.” He stopped with his hand on the door and slashed her a grin. “Will you come find me if I get carried off?”

  She arched a delicate brow. “I guess that would depend on whether or not you have a check in your wallet for the second installment on your design.”

  Oh
yeah; there definitely had to be something in the air around here, as Jesse couldn’t remember the last time he’d dared to flirt with a woman who wasn’t at least sixty years old.

  But then, Cadi Glace was safely engaged.

  “I guess you’ll have to hunt me down to find out,” he said as he opened the door. He lunged at the strings tied to her purse when the balloons shot forward in a mad dash to escape, and this time Jesse heard himself sigh at the sound of two sharp pops when the stiff sea breeze drove them into the corner of the door.

  “That room isn’t getting unlocked until you take the blame for the cake and the balloons,” she said, ducking the swarm to reach past him when he straightened.

  “What have you got in here?” he asked, holding up the heavy purse when she backed out with the cake. “Rocks? A small red Mercedes sports coupe?”

  “I wish,” she said, rolling her eyes as she started up the driveway. “I’ve got two bottles of wine in there.” She shot him another smile as he fell into step beside her. “And a small brick of modeling clay, so I can add one final detail to your island before you show up this Friday.”

  “You build the models? Stanley doesn’t source those out?”

  “Why would he do that when he has me?”

  “Because during my search for an architect, I was led to believe fabricating architectural models was a specialized field, and small firms like Glace and Kerr hired that out.”

  “They usually do,” she said dryly, “unless the architect happens to have a young teenage daughter he can teach to build them for free.”

  “You don’t get paid?”

  “I finally wised up by age sixteen,” she said with a laugh. “So trust me, Mr. Sinclair; I will definitely hunt you down if the balloons carry you off, because a good chunk of that check in your wallet will be going into mine.”

  Jesse decided he was buying a compressor and bottling up the air on his island to take back to New York. And instead of sending flowers after his next date with Pamela, he would have a bottle of Maine air delivered the day before, and see if it didn’t get the woman interested in talking about something other than her latest shopping trip to Paris. “Then if I don’t want to spend the night stuck in a tree with a bunch of deflated balloons, I probably shouldn’t mention that I mailed the check to Stanley last week.”

  “Come on, Cadi, hurry up,” a woman called out, carrying a huge rectangular pot as she walked down the driveway toward them, a wild-haired, sun-weathered gentleman shuffling along beside her. “We need to plug in Elmer’s chowder to reheat it. Your car blowing up set us back a good hour, and everyone’s starved.”

  “Them fools wanted to dig out the plastic spoons and eat it right outta the pot,” the man said, having to raise his voice over the muted blare of music coming from the building.

  Jesse perked up. “Would that be clam chowder?”

  “If’n it ain’t got clams in it, mister, you ain’t eating real chowdah.” He started shuffling back up the driveway. “That fancy rig of yours is a tad big to be hauling across Bog Road, don’t yah think,” Elmer continued—Jesse recognizing him as one of the bicycle-pedaling madmen. “If’n you was coming from Ellsworth, yah coulda just gone another two miles and taken Clancy Lane. It’s a mite longer but a helluva lot straighter.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Jesse murmured. Five times, actually, by members of the peanut gallery as they’d stood watching the flames being doused.

  The sea of hungry people parted when the four of them rounded the corner of the building, opening a path to the door. “I hope you realize, Cadi,” an elderly woman said, “that your car exploding was a sign you shoulda gotten that fancy Mercedes you wanted.”

  Miss Glace passed the cake to a nearby empty-handed gentleman. “Don’t worry, Doreen, I always take something trying to kill me as a sign.”

  “Hey, what happened to the cake?” the man asked, scowling down at the box.

  “Apparently Mr. Sinclair isn’t a fan of chocolate,” she said, reaching toward Jesse with a smug smile. “The office key is in my— Darn,” she muttered, dropping her hand. “It’s hanging off the ignition of my crappy car. Okay, everyone; turn around and no peeking,” she instructed, bending over to the sound of several snorts as not one person turned away. She lifted an edge of the welcome mat and straightened holding a key. “Thank you for not starting without me,” she continued, sliding the key in the lock and cracking open the door.

  But instead of going inside, she looked back at everyone. “I’ll go upstairs while you all squeeze into the front office. Try to get settled before he shuts off the music so he won’t suspect anything.” She took the cake back from the gentleman and frowned in thought, then looked at Jesse. “Except you, Mr. Sinclair. You can stay in the lobby, and I’ll get Stanley to come down by telling him you decided you couldn’t wait until Friday. Okay, people, it’s party time,” she said brightly, stepping inside.

  Using his choke hold on the remaining balloons to control them while trying not to trip over the strings of the ones that had popped, Jesse rushed in behind her and immediately stepped to the side to avoid being trampled as he recalled the last party he’d attended. He’d bet a year’s salary that even though the elegant birthday bash Pamela’s socialite parents had thrown her had probably cost more than two Mercedes, he was going to enjoy this party a whole lot more.

  Especially the clam chow-dah.

  It was a good thing the music was loud enough to rattle the windows, because a herd of elephants would have shaken the building less when what Jesse suspected was the entire population of Whistler’s Landing raced to the front office. Or rather, quickly shuffled to the office, as he didn’t see one person under sixty years old in the group. Her face glowing with anticipation, Miss Glace headed across the lobby, only to momentarily still in surprise as she set the cake on the reception counter. She then continued to a door on the back wall and opened it to reveal a stairway, but halted again and shot him a brilliant smile. “Well, Mr. Sinclair, consider yourself aptly rewarded for today’s heroics,” she said over the even louder music, gesturing to her left and then heading upstairs.

  Spotting something painted deep blue peeking out from behind the counter, Jesse untangled himself from the balloons and set the heavy purse on a nearby chair as he rushed forward—only to also go perfectly still at the sight of the large, detailed model of Hundred Acre Isle. Immediately drawn to the southeast-facing bluff that he knew rose nearly twenty feet above the high tide mark, he could only stare at what was undeniably a state-of-the-art home that appeared to be constructed of concrete, steel, and glass.

  He was absolutely stunned. The house was in fact so unpretentious, it was hard to tell where the island ended and the concrete began, as the bluff itself seemed to make up the entire rear wall of the long, gently curving structure. But despite being all but lost in the hundred acres surrounding it, he could clearly see the roof—which cantilevered out over half again its width as it rose to a full two stories at one end—was almost completely covered in low-growing shrubs. And the exposed southeast-facing wall, rising from a stone patio running the full length of the house, was made entirely of glass.

  He was going to have to stop betting away his salary, because it was going to take every penny he earned over the rest of his life to pay for all that concrete and glass and what he was afraid might be stainless steel trusses, and another lifetime to cover the labor costs. Hell, he could probably have a cargo ship built cheaper.

  His chest tightening with some indefinable emotion, Jesse reached out and gently ran a finger along the tiny roofline that rose like a deep ocean wave just about to crest. The house was so much more than he had envisioned—more beautiful, stunning, organic, so . . . perfect.

  But how was that possible? How could an unassuming architect hidden in a remote Maine town, with only a two-hour discussion and half a dozen emails asking Jesse to elaborate on so
mething from their meeting, design a home which shouted—no, unpretentiously whispered—that this particular configuration of concrete and steel and glass, sitting on this particular bluff, was the heart and very soul of Jesse Sinclair?

  Either Stanley Kerr was a genius or the man had a pact with the devil.

  No; not even the devil himself could have—

  “What is that noise?”

  Startled out of his spell, Jesse turned to see an elderly woman frowning up at the ceiling as she stood in the doorway of the front office. “Does anyone else hear that banging and squeaking mixed in with the music?” she asked no one in particular.

  “Sounds to me like there’s already a party going on up there,” a man said as people started spilling back into the lobby.

  Jesse looked toward the open door leading upstairs while listening along with everyone else, and finally realized that embedded in the blaring music—which he recognized as Wagner’s Tannhäuser—was the rhythmic thump and accompanying squeak of . . .

  Christ, those were bedsprings. His chest tightening again, this time with the realization that Cadi Glace’s day was about to go from crappy to devastating, Jesse started toward the stairs only to stop when the music suddenly stopped.

  The thumping and squeaking, with labored breathing and soft moans now clearly audible, continued on for several heartbeats before ending abruptly with a startled feminine shriek and male shout of surprise. Jesse looked over to see the peanut gallery frozen in place, every last one of them staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. He started forward again just as a succinct, distinctly male curse echoed down the stairway, but stopped with his foot on the bottom step when the same man growled, “Paula, get me out of these damn cuffs! Jesus, Mark, help her!”

  The ceiling shook when what sounded like several people suddenly sprang into action, the footsteps accompanied by male and female voices muttering curses—not one of those voices sounding as though it belonged to Miss Glace.