Weekend Agreement (11 page)

He did? He was? Charlotte whipped her head around to stare at him. Daniel didn’t notice, or pretended not to.

Meanwhile, Vivian didn’t care. She was too busy trying not to let her mouth hang open. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Daniel. This is
High Life
magazine. Do you know how many people would kill for a feature in this magazine? It took months to convince them to come. I promised them the entire family would be there.”

Suddenly her disappointment over Charlotte made more sense. In promising Daniel, Vivian no doubt promised a famous date as well. A history professor, even one with a book out, didn’t quite fit the bill. And poor Daniel. Not only did she want his money, she was capitalizing on his reputation.

Without a second thought, she slipped her hand into his and squeezed. Daniel gave her a look, but said nothing. “Next time I suggest you check with me before making promises. Especially those you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep.”

“Daniel…”

“Good luck with the party planning, Mother.”

He pulled Charlotte past her and out the door.

When they got outside, he paused and jammed both hands into his hair. Pulling at the roots, he closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She brushed her own hair out of her face. Left without the warmth of Daniel’s fingers entwined with hers, her hand felt cold and in the way.

“For not realizing in time that she’d pull a stunt like that.
High Life
magazine indeed.”

“Is a profile in the magazine such a bad thing?”

“Truthfully, not really. I’ve already been in the magazine a couple of times in fact. It’s the assumption that gets to me. Anything to get her face in a national magazine,” he added caustically, raking through his hair again.

Charlotte felt for him. She couldn’t imagine what it felt like being wanted only for what you could do. At least in her fantasy, her mother loved her unconditionally. She wasn’t bent on using her daughter for publicity.

“Anyway, thank you for letting me use you as an excuse. If you want, you can drop me off downtown, and I’ll make my way back by cab later.”

“Or…,” she began.

“Or what?”

Don’t do it
, a voice in her head said.
You’ve already been shot down once
. “Or you could come with me.”

He shook his head. “That’s not necessary, Professor.”

“I know it’s not necessary, but what else are you going to do? You left your work in the house. And I really could use a tour guide.”

Several beats passed as he contemplated her offer. Charlotte held her breath. She had no clue why she repeated it. “Forget it,” she said, finally waving him off. “I’ll drop you off.”

“No, wait.” He grabbed her hand again. Charlotte’s pulse increased. There was something weirdly comfortable about how his hand felt around hers—almost a feeling of rightness. “Would you like to see the original Ferncliff house?”

“It still exists?”

Daniel nodded, and she started to smile, only to quickly frown. “You don’t have to…”

“Professor, I’m well aware that I don’t have to do anything. Now, would you like to see the house?”

“Absolutely.”

She told herself the excitement bubbling in her stomach was for the historic property.

Chapter Seven

Located closer to downtown, the original Ferncliff house was far less ornate than the current family home, a small saltbox with a picket fence and garden in the rear. “Now this,” Charlotte said, “is a whaling captain’s house.”

Daniel half-smiled at the pronouncement. He was more interested in the way her eyes lit up, their green hue becoming dark and rich. Heaven help him, but he liked the look. A lot.

So much for keeping his distance. Thing was, keeping his distance only sounded good in theory. As soon as she entered his physical orbit, the idea lost its value. How could he refuse an offer to see the island with her hand so neatly wrapped in his? Or with her body standing so enticingly close? He couldn’t. Well, he could, but he suddenly discovered that he didn’t want to.

They joined a small group that was on a historic homes walking tour. They’d lucked out. The volunteer guide, a razor-thin woman with gray hair and Birkenstock sandals, hadn’t recognized Daniel. Nor had the rest of the group. The anonymity gave him a sense of freedom he hadn’t felt in years.

Charlotte, naturally, took to the tour as only a historian would. She studied each and every item, right down to the brickwork around the fireplace. “One of the things I love,” she remarked when he joined her at the mantel, “is how practical and simple the early residents were.”

Daniel was more interested in the way her hair curled around her jaw.

“When did the family make the jump to opulence?” she asked.

“Not until after the Great Nantucket Fire. They took advantage of the devastation and the downturn in the whaling industry to buy up land. Put them in quite a position when the island turned into a summer retreat.”

“You know your island history,” the tour guide said.

“I’ve heard it a few times,” he responded with a smile. Leaning in, he whispered to Charlotte, “Though Mother likes to leave the land speculation part out of her retelling. Takes away from the whole seafaring mystique.”

“She wouldn’t be the first person to revise history.”

No, but she was among the best. Daniel had heard Vivian’s version of history so often, there were times when he believed it himself. Worse, he knew it so well he thought he was a Ferncliff himself—an illusion quickly dispelled by looking in the mirror.

“She does seem enthralled by the legacy.”

“Why not? Beats being the grocer’s widow.”

He broke away to study a sampler on the back wall. The soft sound of footsteps followed him.

“How old were you when your father died?” he heard Charlotte ask.

“Eight. Why?”

“No reason,” she said with a shrug. “Simply trying to figure out how long you’ve been connected to the Ferncliffs.”

“Too long,” was his first reply. “My mother married William a year after my father died. Cole came about a year later.” Again, he wondered why she wanted to know. People didn’t ask him these kinds of questions without an agenda.

But “I’m sorry” was all Charlotte said, leaving him unsatisfied and with a queer ache in his heart.

He shrugged, feigning indifference. “I survived. Same way you survived your mother leaving. Not much else we can do.”

“True. Do you miss him?”

His father? He wasn’t sure how to answer. The revisionist in him wanted to play Vivian and say, yes, he missed him greatly. But the truth was, his father hadn’t been around much. He’d been too busy working. “I miss being Frank Moretti’s son,” he said finally. That much was true.

“You still are, aren’t you?”

He missed having the name matter. But he didn’t dare say that aloud. He didn’t believe in revealing his weaknesses.

Though hadn’t he already? “I thought this tour was about the Ferncliffs.”

She took the hint, and dropped the subject. From the way she was worrying her lower lip between her teeth, however, dropped didn’t mean forgotten.

The moment was interrupted by the volunteer who, eager to stay on schedule, herded them toward the back door. “We’re going into the garden now.”

Charlotte followed dutifully, causing him to do the same. Outside, the air was heavy and ominous. The morning’s gray sky had turned darker. A cool wind blew and the birds, with the exception of the occasional gull, had gone silent. In the battle of mothers, it looked like Mother Nature was about to best his. The storm was bearing down.

Funny, his insides felt the same way. Something in the air around him was shifting. He just didn’t know what.

Charlotte was listening to a speech about the properties of comfrey. He tapped her on the shoulder. “Looks like the storm is about to hit soon,” he whispered in her ear. “Do you want to head back?”

She leaned back to reply, “I thought you wanted to avoid the house until closer to the party?”

“I do.” He did. The last thing he felt like was accommodating Vivian’s need to make
High Life
. Or Vivian for that matter. “But if you would rather stay dry…?”

From over her shoulder, she offered him a smile that, God help him, knocked the wind out of his lungs. “I don’t mind a little dampness if you don’t.”

As if on cue, a raindrop plopped on his shoulder, followed by another. And another. “Looks like you’ll get your wish then. Come on.” Grabbing her hand, he pulled through the garden gate to the corner where a block of retail stores sat, the drops punctuating every step. Pushing open the first shop door they came to, he led them inside. A slight musty odor greeted them upon arrival. Following the sea air and the scent-infused museum, the smell struck him hard and his nose instantly wrinkled. Next to him, he heard a soft laugh.

“What’s the matter?” Charlotte asked. “Not a fan of antiques stores?”

“Do they all smell like an attic?” he asked her.

“You get used to it.” She nudged his shoulder. “Give the place a try. You might find a new business opportunity.”

Maybe, but doubtful.
This store was more catchall than the antiques stores he’d visited before. It seemed to feature a little bit of everything. He scanned the neatly arranged display boxes of coins and European pottery. It would be nice to see Charlotte in her element, though. Or rather, to continue seeing Charlotte in her element. Their truncated conversation from earlier still didn’t sit easy with him. Where had she been trying to go with her questions? Maybe he’d get a better understanding of her, and why she seemed to hit him in such a strong, inexplicable way.

Feeling a tug, he looked down and saw Charlotte’s fingers still nestled in his. Reluctantly, he let go, surprised at the strength of the lingering sensation. He wanted her contact back.

To distract himself, he wandered the room, noting the number of pieces similar to the ones in William’s house. A drop-leaf card table, no more than three feet high, stood in the corner. He raised an eyebrow at the price tag.

“Because of the designer,” Charlotte explained. “His work is highly collectible these days.”

“And you know this because…”

She smiled. “Public access television. They featured a piece from him on one of the antique shows. Apparently you could buy the same stuff for a third of the price a few years ago.”

He thought of the antique furniture filling her house. “Sounds like collecting antiques is a good business plan.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She set down the porcelain figurine she’d been studying and moved away, leaving him to decipher her remark.

What other reason would a person buy some of this stuff, other than its investment value? Out of habit, he started calculating the margin of return on investment on the items he saw.

He was questioning the value of an old beer advertisement when he found Charlotte staring at the back wall, lost in thought. He followed her gaze to see what had captured her attention.

It was a portrait of a young woman. Nothing special, although he had to admit, the woman did have an intriguing look about her. The square jaw and strong, prominent features weren’t those of a great beauty but rather of a woman confident and content with whom she was. The artist captured that confidence in her steady, serene gaze.

A tag stuck on the corner of the portrait read “Nice Frame” and listed the price.

“Sad, isn’t it?” Charlotte remarked.

“Sad?”

“To think you could live your whole life and in the end wind up on a wall with a sign that says ‘Nice Frame.’ This woman had family once. Friends. Now she’s all but forgotten.”

“Maybe she deserved it. I’ve got a few relatives I’d like to forget.”

Charlotte gave him an indulgent smile. “The past is who we are whether we want it or not. We should preserve our legacy, if for no other reason than to keep us from making the same mistakes.

“Antiques have become big business,” she continued. “Investments. More time is spent worrying about who made a piece than who owned it. Sentimental value, I’m afraid, has taken a backseat to book value.”

Suddenly her remark made sense. Once again he thought of the antiques in her house, and of her remark that she would never sell them. “Is that what you’re doing? Keeping the family legacy alive single-handedly?”

“Someone has to.”

It was his turn to smile at her. “That’s very admirable.” A bit crazy, perhaps, but admirable.

“Not everyone agrees with you.”

“Are we talking about your brother?”

“Among others. I’m afraid my brother, Michael, considers the saving of family heirlooms the intellectual equivalent of chasing ghosts. Personally,” she stared up at the portrait, “I think everyone deserves to be remembered.”

Including the mother who abandoned her. While he ran from his mother, she sought to bring hers closer. The notion sent a wave of longing tumbling through him. He swallowed down the sensation. “Spoken like a true historian.”