Beautiful Stranger

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“They have to be inside cats, though. No going outside. I don’t like that.”

“Okay.” He wandered to the door, pulling his T-shirt over his head. “I’ll jump in the shower, then you can have it. Maybe we could have lunch first somewhere.”

“McDonald’s?” she asked with hope.

“Ugh. No. Someplace better.”

She grinned, looking impossibly young and pretty and sweet, the way she should. “Grown-ups are so boring.”

He tugged the rubber band out of the bottom of his braid and shook out his hair. “Look who’s talking.” He threw his T-shirt at her. “McDonald’s is not high cuisine.”

“Yuck!” She threw the T-shirt back at him. “And don’t use such fancy language.”

“It’s good for you.”

The doorbell rang, and Robert picked up his shirt from the floor. “Get ready and we’ll go.” Probably the paperboy, who showed up at the dot of eleven every second Saturday. He stuck his hand in his pocket and found he only had a five. “Hang on!” he called, and went to the bedroom for a ten.

Chapter 4

Marissa had a routine on Saturday mornings. She liked to get up early and walk downtown, pick up a latte from a café she liked, then walk through the pleasant side streets that branched off Main, to look at garage sales. It was a homey tradition in Red Creek, a homey tradition she enjoyed right along with everyone else. She also hit the big, three-county flea market that was held at the fairgrounds once a month, and although she enjoyed the social angle as much as everyone else did, her true purpose was related to her avocation: art glass.

She was a minor expert, specializing in Art Nouveau. She collected several items herself, and stayed in touch with an honest dealer who could sell the pieces in which she had no interest. It had amazed her at first, how often she found rare and not-so-rare pieces in Colorado, but there had been a huge amount of mining money here in Red Creek, and more in Denver. More than once she had spared a vendor from making a big mistake in selling the 1908 Van Briggle vase they’d grown tired of for two dollars and fifty cents instead of the thousands it would command in the open market, or letting the Louis Comfort Tiffany inlaid bronze dish go as an ashtray.

This morning, she’d come out especially early, scenting possibility in an “Attic” sale on one of the oldest blocks in town. Three families had come together for the sale of an old woman’s Victorian mansion. Tables had been set out on the lawns between two houses, and Marissa browsed happily among the old records and books, tickled when she found an old, hardbound Donna Parker she remembered, the one in which Rickie’s mother died. So sad. She tucked it happily under her arm, and around the crotch of an old tree, spied the kitchen and glass-wares and costumed jewelry, all spread on a huge Arts and Crafts buffet in exquisite condition. Aha!

Furniture wasn’t her usual area, but she examined the piece intently, trusting her instincts. It was in perfect condition, save a very small chip on one corner, and she knew it was worth far more than the fifty-dollar price tag stuck on it. She took out a notebook she carried for this purpose and scribbled notes about it for future reference. The drawers were open, holding ropes of old costume necklaces and rhinestone earrings. The top was cluttered with extraneous kitchen supplies, among them an enormous collection of vases in every shape and form available, along with plates of carnival glass—that carried price tags commensurate with its value. Marissa didn’t collect it, but was pleased to see that the sellers did know the worth.

Most of the rest of the glass was flawed or worthless—a fairly good example of milk glass was badly cracked, and a promising cameo glass proved to be an imitation. She was about to go find one of the sellers to let them know they needed to have the buffet appraised before letting it go when her eye caught on a soft glow in one of the drawers. Hesitantly she moved a tangle of Mardi Gras beads out of the way to reveal a small, opalescent statue of a woman in a circle of glass. Marissa’s heart pinched as she reached for it, drawing it into the light—it was! She held it up to the sun, laughing at the glow it cast. It was a miraculously unchipped, uncracked and perfectly whole perfume bottle stopper by Lalique, with the design of a naked woman in a twist of branches.

“Oh!” she said, turning to the woman in a jumper who approached pleasantly. “Let me ask you a question.”

“Of course.” A bright, tanned smile. “Are you interested in the buffet?”

“No, but is it yours?”

“Yes, all of these came from my aunt’s house. She died recently and we’re remodeling.”

“Well, the vases are all junk and the jewelry, but the buffet needs to be appraised. It’s worth at least a couple of thousand.”

Her lips turned down in surprise. “Really? I have always hated this thing. So clunky. I don’t much like anything from that era, so I won’t keep it anyway, but I appreciate you letting me know.”

Marissa opened her hand, letting her treasure glow in her palm like a beacon. “And how much for this?” She held her breath.

A shrug. “Pretty. How about fifty cents?”

Marissa smiled, and pulled out her purse and carefully set the piece down. “I’m going to write you a check for this, but there’s a rule. You may not look at it until I leave.”

“A check for fifty cents?”

“No.” Marissa completed the check, tore it out and folded it in half. “Considerably more than that. This is,” she said, picking it up with reverence, “a wonderful and rare antique. If your aunt has more of this kind of thing, I really want to see it, and if you have more glass in the house, you should have it examined.”

The woman looked concerned, and waved toward some clothing on a rack to one side. “Do you want to wrap that in something?”

“Great idea.” She took an old silk hair scarf from a hanger. A collection of soft, airy dresses in bright India cottons had caught her eye, one in a cranberry shade, one in a beautiful green. They were maternity dresses, with the tags still hanging from the sleeves, and very tiny. She pulled one out and thought of Crystal’s dark hair against the fabrics. “How much?” she asked the woman.

“A dollar each.”

Marissa bought them, and feeling buoyed by the little yelp of the woman when she opened the check, she drove to Robert’s house. The happy mood carried her all the way up the steps and she gave a quick, strong knock to the screen door—then courage deserted her.

Suddenly she felt like an idiot. Women must think up excuses to see him all the time. How would this look? She frowned, looking at the dresses again, and worried that Crystal would never wear such things. Robert would probably be offended that she thought he wasn’t taking care of the girl’s clothes well enough.

Oh, bad idea. She nearly bolted, but a voice called from within, “Hang on a second!” and she couldn’t move. Anxiously she looked down again at the dresses, simple summery things that would be so much more comfortable for Crystal over the last month or so of her pregnancy. The colors were still as beautiful as she thought, and she sighed.

“Marissa!” The word held surprise.

She looked up and saw Robert, dimly, through the screen.

Shirtless.

And his hair was down. “Hi,” she said weakly.

He stayed where he was, pulling a long-sleeved T-shirt over his head and tugging it down over his flat, brown belly before he crossed the room and opened the screen door to her. A wicked twinkle lit his eyes. “You look like you’ve come to the wolf’s door,” said that slightly hoarse voice.