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It would be far safer to find the good doctor’s address on her own.
Leaning his bike against the wall of his tiny ’Sconset cottage, Christopher shuffled through his mail as he walked to the back door, feet crunching on the oyster-shell path. Bill, bill, ad, postcard from Bermuda—he flipped it over and read the message from his brother, grinning at his seven-year-old nephew’s scrawled signature that took up half the writing area.
“Hey, there, Christopher.”
Looking up, he smiled at his elderly landlord on the other side of the picket fence that separated the yards of their adjoining cottages, which backed to the sea.
“Hi, Henry. What’s up?” He strolled over, giving his neighbor a swift assessment.
“Now, you put away those doctor eyes of yours.” The man shook a finger at him. “Don’t be sizing me up every time we talk just because I had a bout of pneumonia last winter. I hope you’re as resilient as I am at eighty-four.”
A chuckle rumbled in Christopher’s chest. “I do, too.” In the past two years, since Christopher had rented Henry’s second, tiny cottage, the older man had bounced back from the few ailments he’d experienced.
“Any good mail?”
At Henry’s question, Christopher began riffling through the letters again. “Mostly bills and ads. But I did get a postcard from my brother.” He handed it over.
Pulling a pair of wire-rimmed glasses out of his shirt pocket, Henry examined the photo of the expansive beach. “Pretty, isn’t it? Always wanted to see that pink sand.” He handed it back.
“Would you still like to go?”
“Nope. Did plenty of gallivanting in my army days. I’m happy to be an armchair traveler now. Don’t have to worry about terrorists on airplanes or fighting crowds or losing luggage. You can’t beat the Travel Channel.” He leaned closer to Christopher and peered at one of the envelopes in his hand. “That looks interesting.”
Christopher checked out the return address. The Devon Rose. That was interesting.
Slitting the envelope, he pulled out a single sheet of paper folded in half. Inside he found a gift certificate and a short note written in a scrawling hand.
Dr. Morgan:
Thank you for your assistance on Monday. The penicillin took care of the problem. Please enjoy tea for two as a token of my appreciation.
It was signed by Marci Clay.
It would be difficult to imagine a more impersonal message. Yet Christopher’s heart warmed as he ran a finger over the words inked by Marci’s hand.
“Maybe interesting wasn’t the right word.”
As Henry’s eyes narrowed in speculation, heat crept up Christopher’s neck. “It’s a gift certificate. I did an impromptu house call a few days ago, and the patient was grateful. You ever been here?” He waved the envelope at Henry, hoping to distract him.
It didn’t work.
“Female patient?”
The man might be old, but he was still sharp, Christopher conceded. And if he tried to dodge the question, Henry would get more suspicious. “Yes. Her brother just married the owner, and she’s running the place while they’re on their honeymoon. Hence the invitation.” Christopher paused as an idea took shape. “Don’t you have a birthday coming up?”
“I stopped counting those long ago.”
“June eighth.” Christopher had jotted the occasion on his calendar. Henry might pretend not to care about his birthday, but he’d been thrilled last year when his tenant had treated him to an upscale dinner at The Chanticleer. “How about you and I give this a try on your big day?” He held up the gift certificate.
Sliding his palms into the back pockets of his slacks, Henry bowed forward like a reed, his knobby elbows akimbo, his expression dubious. “Kind of fancy-schmancy, isn’t it?”
“You deserve fancy on your birthday.”
“You ought to take some pretty little lady to a place like that.”
An image of Marci flashed through his mind, but Christopher pushed it aside. “Pretty little ladies seem to be in short supply these days.”
“You’re not looking in the right places, then.”
“I’m not looking, period.”
“I know.” Henry sighed. “But you’ve got to move on, Christopher. You can’t let one bad experience ruin your life. I learned that after Korea. Lots of the guys in my outfit couldn’t get past the bad stuff once they came home. Haunted them for the rest of their lives. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. You’re thirty-six years old. You should have a wife and a bunch of kids by now.”
“I’ll get around to that one of these days.”
“You said that last year.”
Christopher laid a hand on the older man’s bony shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, Henry. But this is best for now.” He lifted the certificate again. “In the meantime, do we have a date?”
The man grinned. “I expect we do. Shall I break out my tie?”
“I will if you will.”
“It’s a deal.”
As Marci returned from showing two guests to their table, a tall man with deep blue eyes, dressed in khaki slacks and a navy blue blazer, stepped into the foyer of The Devon Rose.
Christopher Morgan.
He smiled when he saw her, the fine fan of lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re looking a lot better.”
A disconcerting ripple of warmth spread through her as he drew close, and she wiped her palms down her slim black skirt. “I’m feeling a lot better.”
“That’s good news.” He held up a familiar piece of paper. “I’m here to redeem my gift certificate.”
Julie must have taken the reservation, Marci concluded, skimming the names on the day’s seating chart. There it was. Morgan. Table six. For two.
He’d brought a date.
Her warm feeling evaporated.
Steeling herself, she looked up again, expecting to see some gorgeous female lurking behind him.
Instead, a wiry, wizened old man with thin, neatly combed gray hair popped out and grinned at her. But he directed his question to Christopher.
“Is this the lady who sent you the certificate?”
“She’s the one.”
Henry’s grin broadened as he inspected Marci. “It’s my birthday. Eighty-five years and counting.”
“Wow! That does deserve a celebration.” Marci smiled back.
“At my age, every day I wake up is worth celebrating.” His eyes twinkled as he stuck out his hand. “Name’s Henry Calhoun. I’m Christopher’s neighbor. Nice to meet you.”
She returned his firm shake. “Marci Clay.”
“Nice place you have here.” He perused the foyer and grand staircase. “My wife came here once, years ago. Had a great time, as I recall.”
“We’ll do our best to see that you do, too.”
The front door opened again, admitting more patrons, and Christopher turned to his companion. “We’d better let Ms. Clay show us to our table, Henry.”
“Maybe she can stop by and chat with us again later.” The older man gave her a hopeful look.
“I’d be happy to.”
She led the way to their corner table in one of the twin parlors, offering them a tea menu. “Julie will be back in a few minutes to answer any questions and take your tea order. Enjoy the experience.”
“We will,” Henry assured her. “I even wore a tie for the occasion.” He flapped the out-of-date accessory at her.
Marci did her best to stifle a grin. Based on width alone, the tie had to be at least twenty years old. “You look very spiffy.”
“Spiffy?” Christopher’s mouth tipped up in amusement, distracting her. He had nice lips, she noted.
Jolted by that observation, she summoned up a frown to counter it. “What’s wrong with spiffy?”
“Nothing. It’s just a rather old-fashioned term.”
“Maybe she’s an old-fashioned girl,” Henry chimed in. “And if you ask me, no one’s ever come up with a better compliment than spiffy. Thank you, my dear.”
“You’re very welcome. I’ll be back a little later to see how you enjoyed the tea.”
Returning to the foyer, Marci continued to seat the guests, mindful of the pair of men at the corner table every time she entered the sitting room. Once the tea got underway, however, she worked a wedding shower in the dining room while Julie handled the twin sitting rooms on the other side of the foyer.
But—much to her annoyance—her thoughts kept straying to the blue-eyed doctor. And each time they did, her fingers grew clumsy. She dropped a silver server on the floor. Sloshed some hot water on the white linen as she set down a fresh teapot. Knocked over the sugar bowl, sending cubes tumbling across the starched tablecloth.
She tried to blame her fumblings on a simple physical awareness of the man’s striking good looks, but she knew it went deeper than that. Since his faux pas in the restaurant, he’d been a total gentleman. It didn’t seem fair to hold a brief lapse against him. He wasn’t the first man to notice her legs. Or her body. Nor would he be the last. But he was the first to apologize for his rude behavior.
And that made him special.
Who was he, really? Marci wondered, peeking over her shoulder as she lifted the lid on the tea chest so the bride-to-be could make her selection. She could just catch a glimpse of his strong profile as he spoke with Henry, the fragile bone china teacup looking child-size in his long, lean fingers. Had he been born on Nantucket? Where did he live? What did he do in his free time?
Did he have a girlfriend?
But none of those questions mattered, she reminded herself, turning back to the bride-to-be. Least of all the last one. She wasn’t going to be on Nantucket long enough to get to know anyone. She was here to rest and relax after seven grueling years of school and work. Then she’d begin her job search and build a future for herself that didn’t include slinging hash at Ronnie’s. Or relying on others to validate her.
She’d done that once, and it had been a huge mistake. One she didn’t intend to repeat. Going forward, only the two men she trusted to love her for the right reasons would be granted access to her heart: her brothers, J.C. and Nathan.
Yet as she closed the tea chest and took one more wistful glance across the room toward the tall, handsome man juggling a teacup, she found herself wishing there could be an exception to that rule.
Even though she knew such romantic fancies were only the stuff of fairy tales.
“Now that was a mighty tasty birthday feast.” Henry wiped his mouth on the linen napkin and leaned back in his chair, nursing a final cup of tea.
“I second that.” Christopher slathered his last miniscone with generous layers of wild strawberry jam and imported clotted cream. “Not so good for the cholesterol, though.”
“I’m eighty-five. If cholesterol hasn’t gotten me yet, I doubt it will. And if it does—” he gestured to his empty plate “—what a way to go.”
Christopher consumed the scone in one bite and chuckled. “It’s hard to argue with that.”
Scanning the room, Henry folded his napkin and set it beside his plate. “I hope Marci remembers to stop by. She’s a nice girl.”
“Seems to be.”
“She’s not wearing a ring.”
Uh-oh. Christopher knew where this was heading.
“She’s also only here for a short time, Henry.”
“Doesn’t take long.”
“For what?”
“To know if someone’s a good match.” A soft smile tugged at the older man’s lips. “When I met Marjorie at that USO dance, things clicked right away. I won’t say it was love at first sight, but I knew the potential was there. We were married for fifty-four years, so I guess my instincts weren’t too shabby.”
Christopher swallowed. “Not everyone is blessed with sound instincts.”
“You were. Otherwise you wouldn’t be such a good doctor.”
He gave a slight shrug. “Then I guess they don’t translate to my personal life.”
“What happened with Denise wasn’t your fault, Christopher. The problem was her, not you.”
Brushing a few crumbs into a neat pile on the snowy linen, Christopher picked them up and deposited them on his plate. When he’d come to Nantucket, he’d had no intention of sharing the story of his ill-fated romance with anyone. But he’d changed his mind one stormy night a few weeks into his stay after he’d discovered his landlord trying to batten down the gazebo his late wife had cherished.
Though Christopher had pitched in, they’d been unable to stop the brutal wind from ripping it apart and hurling pieces of it down the beach. Christopher had wrapped a protective arm around the older man’s shoulders and guided him inside, to safety. But he hadn’t been able to pry Henry away from the window. As the older man had watched the storm destroy the gazebo, tears streaking down his cheeks, he’d told Christopher he’d built it for his beloved wife years ago. That it had become her favorite place. And that it was the only spot where he could still feel her presence.
Now it was gone.
Christopher had stayed to console Henry. But later, over strong cups of coffee and a stubby candle—the electricity had also been a victim of the storm—he’d found their roles reversed when Henry asked him about his own life and what had brought him to Nantucket. As the wind howled and the world was reduced to the diameter of a candle flame, he’d opened his heart—and sealed their friendship.
In the ensuing months, Christopher had come to value the man’s insights and advice. About everything except Denise.
“I’m not sure the problem was all hers, Henry. Besides, you didn’t know her.”
“I know you. That’s enough.”
