Island Summer Love Page 3

  It was during dessert, huge slabs of hot apple pie, that Martha finally asked about Brent. Allison found herself intensely aware of the sudden silence in the room.

  “Well,” said Isabel slowly, throwing a long glance at Abel, “he’s been pretty busy this winter. Had some trouble out on the fishing grounds one day last February. Got caught in an awful storm, but lucky for him, the Coast Guard heard his SOS and towed him in. It’s not like Brent to get himself in such a predicament. But I suppose all boys have got to learn the hard way sometimes. It took him a while to get his boat back in shape, so he lost some money. He’s trying to make up for it this summer. Hope the price of lobster is better than last year.”

  Abel coughed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It never would have happened if it hadn’t been for that Lawton woman. He was awful gone on her. Thought she was going to get her claws in him for good and take him right off the island.”

  Isabel frowned. “Now, you know nothing could get Brent to leave Harper’s Island, Abel.”

  “Well, that woman sure gave it a try. I was some glad to see the back of her last spring when she went back to Portland. I like this one he’s seeing now a lot better—what’s her name?”

  “Emily Potter.” Isabel clicked her tongue. “And you know there’s no need putting two and two together and coming up with five.” She turned to Martha. “Emily is Mildred’s granddaughter, here for the summer. A pretty young thing, kind of caught his eye. But I don’t believe he’s too serious about her.”

  “He’s not likely to be serious about anybody for a while, after what he went through last winter,” put in Abel. “But it’s good to see him on an even keel again. That Tracy Lawton had him acting like a lovestruck boy.”

  “You’re exaggerating, Abel. Brent’s not so foolish as you make him out to be.”

  Abel nodded, chewing. “Any man’s foolish when he’s head over heels for a woman like that.” He peered down the table at Allison. “You got a boyfriend, Miss Curtis?”

  “Allison’s engaged,” said Martha quickly, “to the handsomest man in the world.”

  Abel laughed. “If anybody ought to know, it’d be you, Martha. I believe you’ve looked them all over already.”

  “Abel!” Isabel’s black look made Abel swallow his grin and turn back to the remains of his pie. She turned to Martha. “Don’t mind him. He’s just giving you a hard time. He knows it’ll get your goat, all this talk about Brent.”

  Martha had colored, but she looked calm as she put down her fork and slid her hands into her lap. “I’m afraid I’ve set my heart on somebody I met last summer in France.”

  “Oh?” said Isabel.

  “His name’s Raoul, and he’s wonderful. European men are so sensual.”

  Abel was studying his plate closely. Allison thought she saw him try to swallow a grin several times, but he kept his head bent as he poked determinedly at a scrap of pie crust.

  Isabel cleared her throat. “Well, I’m sure he’s very nice. Is he coming to visit you on the island?”

  “Oh, no! Mama’s declared him off limits.” Martha smiled. “For the time being, at least. I’m working on her, of course.”

  “Of course,” muttered Abel.

  Martha leaned toward Isabel. “But who is this Tracy Lawton? And why was she on the island in the off-season? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of her.”

  Abel grunted and raised his head, but Isabel spoke before he had a chance to comment.

  “None of us had ever heard of her, either, dear. She just showed up one day last fall with a trunk full of books and papers. She said she was doing a study of island life for a book she was writing.”

  “Only she didn’t do much studying that I could see,” commented Abel. “Just set her sights on Brent and went after him like a hound goes after a rabbit.”

  “Brent’s hardly a rabbit. He’s a grown man,” said Isabel. “Besides, she was a very attractive woman. You can’t blame the boy for wanting to spend time with her.”

  “Well, I’m glad he finally got shed of her.” Abel put down his fork and rocked back in his chair. “It’s the first time I ever saw him like that about a woman.”

  “Well, it won’t be the last,” Isabel said cheerfully, collecting the empty pie dishes. “One of these days he’s going to find the right woman and settle down for good.”

  “Can’t be too soon for my taste,” said Abel. “I don’t believe there was ever a man who was more meant for marrying than Brent.”

  Allison smiled. “It’s funny you should say that. Martha told me he was a confirmed bachelor.”

  “Brent?” Abel shook his head. “He’s sowed his wild oats already, that boy. He’s ripe to settle down, you mark my words.”

  Martha coughed lightly, folded her napkin and placed it on the table. “Can we help you with the dishes, Isabel?”

  “No, of course not! This is your first night on the island! There’ll be time enough for chores in the days to come. Especially if you’re running that big house all by yourself this summer.”

  “Thanks for a wonderful dinner,” Martha said, hugging the older woman once again before she and Allison left the little gray house.

  Isabel smiled. “You’re more than welcome, dear.” She turned to Allison. “And so are you. I hope you’ll come back often.” To Allison’s surprise, the older woman gave her a brief hug, as well. “Welcome to Harper’s Island.”

  The forest path had darkened as Allison and Martha walked back to the cottage, and Allison was relieved when they arrived at the house. She had heard stories as a child of people getting lost in the woods, and they had always seemed disturbingly real to her.

  Fatigue overcame her almost immediately. After unpacking her things and listening to Martha enthuse for a while about sailing, she said good night and went upstairs. She took a long hot bath in the private bathroom off her bedroom and slipped into her white lace nightgown. For a moment she stood at the long bedroom window, looking down at the moonlit village below. Impulsively, she slid open the window and stepped out onto the balcony, then shivered as the surprisingly cold air enveloped her. Yet something about the peaceful scene drew her, and she didn’t go back inside immediately.

  Below, sleeping serenely in their houses, were the island villagers, hardworking men and women who struggled daily for survival. It was a life that had always alarmed her, one that appeared full of privation and hardship. But now, strangely, she felt drawn to the little town; she found herself wondering if she could be happy living in a community like it, where life seemed so straightforward and uncomplicated, where people like Abel and Isabel Cutler shared their lives with friendly neighbors. Of course, she would never have to find out. In a few weeks she would be one of the wealthiest young women in America.

  She sighed and continued gazing down at the village. Somewhere down there was Brent’s house. She felt a sudden flush of excitement, and an image of the tall blond man rose in her mind. She realized, with a shiver of recognition, that Brent Connors was an exact likeness of her fantasy lover.

  Chapter Three

  Despite her fatigue, Allison slept fitfully. She dreamed that Cabot was running toward her across a brilliant green meadow, while she waited with outstretched hands. For some strange reason, she was weeping, almost as if she were dreading the imminent touch of his hands. When she woke, at dawn, she had the uneasy feeling that Brent Connors had been somewhere in her dream. She lay motionless in bed, watching the room lighten around her, trying to recall more details of her dream. But the more she tried to remember it, the more it all became a vague blur. Why did she have the distinct impression she had been in Brent’s arms? She sighed and closed her eyes, willing herself back to sleep.

  It was no use. She was wide awake. Outside her window the birds were singing frantically. It was a beautiful sound, very different from the grind of traffic outside her apartment window in Boston. But it could hardly be called silent. She smiled. Who had ever invented the myth that rural life was quiet?<
br />
  She got up and went to the window. The sun was rising on the far side of the house, but her part of the balcony was still in shadow. She stepped out into the cool, morning air and squinted down at the harbor. Most of the boats that had been moored there the previous afternoon were gone. Apparently, fishermen went to work early in the day. She sighed. She knew from past experience that Martha liked to sleep well into the morning. It always seemed to Allison that the best part of the day was already gone if you didn’t wake up until ten o’clock.

  She went into the blue-tiled bathroom adjoining her room. Last night she’d been so sleepy she’d hardly noticed the elegant touches that made it so attractive: a low skylight over the bathtub, a chrome and white vinyl armchair, and an antique étagère holding blue and white plush towels. She saw for the first time how it blended with the bedroom; the same soft hues were carried throughout, as was the feeling of comfortable and subdued elegance. Clearly, Mrs. Hollingsworth had had her say in the decorating scheme on the second floor, no matter how much her husband had insisted on the place’s cottage-like appearance downstairs.

  The birds were still caroling when Allison went downstairs, dressed in a comfortable pair of blue linen slacks and a matching chamois blouse. She briefly considered taking a walk down to the private beach below the house, but decided to save that for later in the day. Right now she wanted to explore the grounds around the cottage. Martha would wake up soon enough and proceed to assault her with a whole list of activities for the day.

  Allison left a note on the trestle table in the kitchen, and then slipped quickly outside. The house was surrounded by wide green lawns, and, on the south side, an informal garden of fruit trees and flowers flanked a winding gravel path. From almost any vantage point, Allison discovered, she could get a glimpse of the sea. It was an idyllic setting, a place for lovers. She tried to imagine Cabot strolling with her through the garden, and something froze inside her.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. She loved Cabot deeply. His courtesy and good looks had swept her off her feet; his money had been a heady aphrodisiac. Perhaps her love didn’t correspond to the flighty passion of heroines in romance novels, but then, that was just fiction. She’d never loved any man before Cabot, despite her numerous dates.

  From the beginning, when she first started going out with Cabot, she had known he would make a perfect husband. How could anyone not be dazzled by the world he lived in? Everything was so easy for Cabot; he merely had to pick up the phone and he could have anything he desired. He showered her with gifts; he was always sending her flowers or baskets of gourmet foods; he presented her with expensive pieces of jewelry on each monthly anniversary of their first date. Once, he had arranged a catered dinner aboard his father’s private yacht and they had dined under the stars while the ship plied the waters of Boston Harbor. Later that evening they had danced on the open deck to live band music. It was a world that was totally captivating, a dream come true.

  It was obvious that the strange feelings she’d been having lately were just prenuptial jitters, the same nagging doubts that every bride experienced as the big day approached. She loved Cabot and he was the perfect fiancé. There was no doubt in her mind.

  She shook her head and looked across the lawns at the dark pine forest. Spotting the path she and Martha had taken to visit the Cutlers, she suddenly decided to follow it all the way down into the village. She had a desire to see the harbor up close, to watch the fishermen working on the dock.

  She walked quickly across the clearing to the path and headed down through the deeply shadowed trees. She found herself hiking along with an uncharacteristic buoyancy in her step. There was no good reason for the growing excitement in her chest, but she couldn’t deny the pleasant prickle of anticipation there. It was as if she knew something delightful was just about to happen.

  When she came out of the woods into the Cutlers’ backyard, she was surprised to see Isabel just coming out of the back door carrying a basket of wet clothes.

  “Hello!” the older woman called cheerfully. “Glad to see not all of Martha’s friends are stay-abeds!”

  Allison grinned and waved. “Can I help you?” she called, but Isabel shook her head.

  “This is my favorite exercise on summer mornings. Nothing’s more satisfying than hanging out clean laundry. You go on about your business.”

  Allison continued across the meadow and came out on the main road. To her right she could see the harbor in the distance, and she headed eagerly in that direction. It wasn’t until she was in front of the general store that she knew she was being followed.

  Three years of city living had made Allison alert to the signals of danger. She never went anywhere without paying attention to her surroundings, and especially the presence of other people. Now she detected the sound of heavy footsteps which seemed to precisely match her own stride. She knew better than to look back over her shoulder and alert her pursuer to her fear. Automatically she quickened her pace and turned into the driveway of a small, red house. She could ask for help if anyone was at home. Hopefully, whoever was following her would just continue along the road. The daylight itself offered her considerable protection.

  She was just a few steps from the porch when a hand fell on her shoulder. Allison let out a sharp cry and would have run except for the sudden, iron grip that hooked her elbow. She spun around, her mouth open to scream in earnest, and looked up into the laughing blue eyes of Brent Connors.

  “You’re up wicked early for a summer person.” He released her elbow and cocked his head. “You planning to cook breakfast for me instead of supper?”

  His accent was pleasantly clipped. Allison noted his red flannel shirt and tight blue jeans as her rapidly beating heart gradually slowed to normal.

  “Breakfast? Why would I make your breakfast?”

  “Looks to me like you planned on paying me a visit. Only sorry I wasn’t here first.” He nodded past her toward the house.

  “Oh!” Allison flushed. “Is this your home?”

  “Has been for nearly eight years.” His grin widened, and Allison found herself grinning back sheepishly.

  “I—It’s hard to explain. I thought somebody was following me.”

  “Well, you were right. I was.” His mouth quirked upward. “But that doesn’t explain why you came visiting.”

  Allison looked into his bright blue eyes and flushed. “I was scared. I thought I might be in danger.”

  “Danger? Here on the island?” His laugh came from deep in his throat; a rich, generous laugh. “You watch too much television. This is Harper’s Island, not New York City. Besides, Miss Curtis, when I have dishonorable intentions toward a woman, I don’t sneak up on her. I usually just come right out and say what’s on my mind.”

  Allison swallowed. “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Connors—”

  “Brent,” he interrupted, grinning so broadly that a long dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s skip the formalities. I’m not very fond of etiquette. Come on in and have some breakfast. I’m starved.”

  He walked past her to the house, clearly expecting her to follow.

  “This is ridiculous,” she protested. “I can’t eat here.”

  He spun to stare at her. “Why not?”

  She looked back at him, the color rising once again in her cheeks. “I was just going for a walk. I only turned into your driveway because I was nervous.”

  “So?” He shrugged. “Does that mean you’re not allowed to eat?”

  She was suddenly aware that she wanted to eat breakfast with Brent. And there was no good reason not to. It would give her a chance to learn about the island from a native’s perspective. And that was something she had been curious about, from the first moment she had arrived on the island.

  “Okay,” she said, smiling. “I’ll have breakfast with you.” She felt a strange pleasure light her from within as Brent grinned back at her.

  “Good. How about scrambled egg
s?”

  Allison could hardly believe she was actually following this stranger into his house, but she went up the steps behind him without hesitating. When he opened the door and held it for her, she stepped past him, accidently brushing his arm with her hand.

  She was instantly aware of a current passing between them, a jolt not unlike an electric shock. She started, looked quickly at him, and found him gazing at her intently. She dropped her eyes, letting her long lashes shield her startled glance, but her heart was pounding wildly, and she knew that Brent had felt the same tremor. She put her fingers to her throat in a futile effort to calm herself. Brent stepped over the threshold behind her and closed the door.

  They were standing in a small living room, paneled in light pine and decorated with fishing paraphernalia. A woodstove stood in one corner opposite a worn couch, flanked by two sagging easy chairs. The room had a casual, friendly look to it, but it also suggested a life lived on the threshold of poverty. Allison waited for the familiar shudder of revulsion to course through her, but it never came. Instead, something about the room attracted her; it was snug and well-cared for; it emanated a cozy, warm aura, an atmosphere of having been lived in. She knew, just looking at it, that it was a place that was loved.

  “The kitchen’s right through here.” Brent opened a door to her left. She felt a mild tremor run up her spine at his nearness; to cover her agitation, she moved quickly through the doorway.

  Blue-checked curtains hung at a sun-splashed window overlooking the harbor; the stove and counter were spotlessly clean. In the center of the kitchen sunlight drenched a circular wooden table.

  “Have a seat.” Brent pulled a ladder-backed chair away from the table. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  Allison flicked him a curious glance. “I thought you wanted me to cook breakfast.”

  He grinned down at her and tapped the back of the chair. “I don’t really expect my guests to fix me breakfast, Allison.”