Tidewater Lover Page 2

  "He's on another line, is he?" There was no mistaking the sarcastic skepticism in the response.

  "Yes. May I have him call you back when he's through?" Lacey offered.

  "No, you may not!" the voice snapped in her ear. She flinched slightly at the coldly raised voice and held the receiver away from her ear. "No doubt Bowman is standing beside you to see if you're going to succeed in stalling me off. But I assure you, miss, that you will

  Whether it was the accuracy of his accusation or her temper reacting to his acid tone, Lacey didn't know, but she abandoned her attempt to be pleasant, resorting to the sarcasm he had used.

  "I assure you, Mr. Whitfield, that Mr. Bowman is on another line. However, since your call seems to be so urgent that you feel the necessity to be rude, I shall see if I can interrupt him. Please hold the line." Without giving him a chance to respond, she pushed the hold button, shutting him off. Fiery lights burned in her brown eyes as she glanced at Mike, anger in the tight-lipped line of her mouth.

  "I'm sorry I asked you to speak to him, Lacey," Mike said immediately. "I'll take the call in my office."

  "I wish you could tell him to go take a flying leap into a dry lake," she fumed.

  "Believe me, it's a temptation," he sighed. "But it is his time and money I'm spending every day that project falls further behind schedule. He has a right to know what's going on."

  "He doesn't have any right to be such a … a …"

  "Careful," Mike warned with a teasing wink. "Ladies aren't supposed to use the word you're searching for!"

  "I don't feel very much like a lady at this moment," Lacey muttered, glaring at the blinking light that indicated that Mr. Whitfield was still holding.

  "Just think about the two weeks you're going to spend away from all this," Mike suggested in an attempt to calm her anger as he started toward his private office.

  As quickly as her temper had flared, it died. "And I'll occasionally spend a moment or two feeling sorry for you back at the office slogging away while I bask on the sand," laughed Lacey.

  Minutes after Mike had entered his office, the light stopped blinking and held steady. Lacey felt sorry for him. Considering the vituperative mood Whitfield was in, it wouldn't be easy for Mike to explain about the new delays on Whitfield's construction project. He was in for a tongue-lashing, but she knew Mike would handle the unpleasant situation in his usual calm way.

  With a sigh, Lacey walked back to the metal cabinets to resume her filing of the folders she had placed on top. The door to her office opened. Lacey glanced over her shoulder and smiled as she recognized the girl who had entered.

  "Hi, Maryann," she greeted the girl who was one of her best friends. "What are you doing?" It was purely a rhetorical question.

  "I am escaping," Maryann Carver declared and sank into the spare, straight-backed chair at Lacey's desk. She had the air of a person who had been pushed to the limit. "A word of advice, Lacey. Don't ever take a job as a payroll clerk. No, two words of advice," she corrected herself. "Don't ever put off going to the dentist."

  "Is your tooth bothering you again?" Lacey sympathized.

  "Yes. Have you got any aspirin for a suffering fool? I forgot to bring any with me this morning and this tooth is killing me." Maryann combed her fingers through hair that couldn't make up its mind whether it was brown or blond.

  "I think there is a bottle of aspirin in the middle drawer of my desk. Help yourself." Lacey slipped a folder into its proper place in the file. "You really should see a dentist."

  "I am, at four this afternoon. All I have to do is survive till then." The desk drawer was opened and pills rattled in their plastic bottle. "He's only going to fix this one tooth. I have to go back in a couple of weeks for a regular checkup. You know, that's one good thing about mothers. They always make sure you have your regular checkups when you live at home. Of course, I'll never tell my mother there are advantages to living at home. She'd have me back in my old room before I could say no."

  "So would my mother." Lacey closed the file drawer and returned to her desk, that task finished.

  "Hey, I just remembered!" With pills in her hand, Maryann paused on her way to the water cooler. "You start your vacation on Monday. Are you still planning to visit your parents in Richmond?"

  "Just for a weekend. My cousin Margo called a few minutes ago. She's going off on a cruise with her husband and asked me to stay in their beach house while they are away."

  "Beach house? How lucky can you get? Are you staying there by yourself? Or would you like a roommate?"

  "But that roommate —" Lacey knew Maryann was suggesting herself "— would have to commute back and forth to work every day."

  Maryann grimaced. "You only brought that up because you want the place to yourself."

  Lacey smiled away the remark. "It's certainly going to be a better vacation than I had planned. Imagine, two weeks with the ocean at my doorstep and an uncrowded beach." Each time she thought about it, it sounded more idyllic. As she set the bottle of aspirin back into the middle drawer, Lacey noticed the light had gone off on the first line of the telephone. "Poor Mike. I wonder if he needs an aspirin."

  "Why should he? Don't tell me he has a toothache, too?" Maryann filled a paper cup with water and downed the aspirin in her hand.

  "No, but I bet he has a headache." Lacey motioned toward the telephone. "He just finished talking to the sarcastic Mr. Whitfield. That man is the cause of many a headache."

  "Who is Mr. Whitfield?"

  "A very rude and obnoxious person. Doubly so because the complex we're building for him is way behind schedule. He's a real pain. I wish Mike would punch him in the mouth some day. After the job is done, of course," she added.

  "Tut, tut, Lacey. The customer is always right." There was a definite twinkle of laughter in Maryann's eyes. "Look, I'd love to sit and exchange miseries all day, but we both have a lot of work to do. We'll have lunch tomorrow and you can tell me all about the beach house and your sarcastic Mr. Whitfield. I suppose the house is fabulous and I'll be green with envy. You'll leave when? Sunday?"

  "No, tomorrow night. I'll have to commute on Friday, but Mike gave me Saturday off."

  "Lucky you," Maryann sighed. "I wish I had him to work for instead of that crochety old pruneface."

  Lacey merely laughed. "Hope your tooth gets better," she offered in goodbye as her friend opened the outer door.

  "So do I. See you tomorrow."

  On thursday evening, with her small hatchback loaded with suitcases and odds and ends, Lacey drove into the driveway of Margo Richards's home. Her brown eyes roved over the elegantly simple lines of the beach house, painted a cream white that matched the foamy whitecaps of the ocean breaking beyond the dunes.

  Only a fool would deny that she was looking forward to having the beautiful home all to herself for the next two weeks, and Lacey was not a fool. A faint smile curved her lips, which bore little traces of strawberry gloss.

  Grabbing her cosmetic case and one of the smaller pieces of luggage from the rear seat of the car, Lacey stepped out and walked buoyantly to the front door. Intent on reaching the flowerpot where Margo had said she would leave the key, Lacey didn't pay attention to what was beneath her feet.

  The toe of her sandal hooked the roughly textured mat in front of the door, catapulting her forward. The cosmetic case flew from her hand, the lock failing to hold so that the lid snapped open to scatter her cosmetics onto the concrete slab. Fortunately Lacey managed to regain her balance a stumbling second before she joined the case.

  "Why don't you pay attention to where you're going, Lacey?" she scolded herself, then stooped to pick up the items scattered before her.

  A gleam of metal winked at her near the edge of the mat. Curious, she reached for it, pushing the mat aside to reveal a shiny key. She studied it for a second, then tried in in the door lock. It opened with the first attempt.

  "How typical of Margo," she murmured aloud, leaving the door open while she refastened
her cosmetic case. "She forgot where she told me she'd put the key and chose the most likely place."

  Inside the entrance foyer of the two-story house, Lacey paused. From her previous single visit to the house, she remembered that the rooms on the ground floor consisted of a study, a rec room and a utility room. The rest was taken up by a garage.

  The main living area of the house was at the top of the stairs to her left. Looking up the staircase, Lacey admired again the tall built-in cabinet stretching from the landing of the open stairwell to the ceiling of the top floor, The carved moldings of its white-painted wood were etched with a darkly brilliant blue. Through the panes of glass in its tall doors, assorted vases and figurines of complementing blues were deftly scattered among a collection of books.

  With cosmetic case and suitcase in hand, Lacey mounted the steps. A large potted tree stood near the white railing at the head of the steps. All was silent. The click of her shoes on the hardwood floor of the second story sounded loud to her own ears, but she resisted the impulse to tiptoe.

  The decor of the stairwell was an introduction to the white and blue world of the living room. Matching cream white sofas with throw pillows of peacock blue occupied the large area rug, predominantly patterned in blue, in front of the white brick fireplace. Again, the assorted statues and figurines carried the theme of blue, accented by the hanging plants and potted plants that abounded in the room.

  The dining room and kitchen were an extension of the living room with no walls to divide them. A mixture of white rattan and white wicker furniture in the dining room added an informal touch, with the emphasis subtly changing from blue to green, mostly by the usage of plants.

  Setting her cases down, Lacey walked to the large picture windows fronting the ocean. The blue drapes were pulled open to reveal an expansive view of the sea and the beckoning sandy beach. She turned away. There was time enough to explore the outdoors later.

  An investigation of the kitchen with its countered bar to the dining room indicated that there was an ample supply of canned goods on hand and three or four days' worth of food in the refrigerator. She would fix her evening meal later. First on the agenda was to unpack and get settled in.

  The bedrooms branched off the hallway to the left of the living room. Lacey only glanced into the master bedroom. The two guest rooms were smaller but still comfortably large. She chose the one with a view of the ocean. The guest rooms shared a bath that had its entrance from the hall.

  Pastel yellow joined with the predominant theme of blue in the room's decor, giving a cheery impression of sunshine and ocean. Lacey glanced admiringly at the furnishings before catching her reflection in the mirror.

  "I could grow to like this style of living." She winked at the mirror. The dark-eyed girl in the mirror, her seal-brown hair styled in a boyish cut that made her look ultrafeminine, winked back.

  An hour later she had brought in all her luggage from the car, which she had parked inside the garage. A few of Margo's winter clothes were in the closet, but there was still plenty of room for Lacey's belongings. Fixing a plate of cheese, cold meat and fruit, she ate alone at the dining table, facing the ocean. She lingered there, listening to the symphony of the surf, gentle waves breaking on the sandy beach. The music of the ocean was soothing and she hated to leave it, but there were other things to be done.

  The picture-perfect house seemed to demand tidiness. Lacey washed the few dishes and put them away, effectively eradicating any trace of her presence. Then, and only then, did she submit to the call of the sea and the beckoning of the empty stretch of sand she could see from the windows.

  The setting sun was turning the sand into molten gold when she finally retraced her steps to the house, tired yet oddly refreshed by the salt air. After showering and setting the alarm, she crawled into bed, falling asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  She stirred once in the night, waking long enough to identify her surroundings before slipping immediately back into a sound sleep. The infuriating buzz of the alarm wakened her as the morning sun was crowning the ocean's horizon. Her groping hand found the shut-off knob and quickly silenced it.

  The long drive ahead of her in the morning traffic made her groan, "I'm glad I only have to do this once!"

  Stumbling out of bed, she walked bleary-eyed into the kitchen, wearing only her long silky pajamas. A pitcher of orange juice was in the refrigerator. Filling a glass from the cupboard, she downed the wake-up juice quickly before putting water on to boil for instant coffee.

  She wasted little time in the bathroom with washing and applying the little makeup she used. Back in her bedroom, she donned a plaid skirt and matching satiny textured blouse in mint green. Her return to the kitchen coincided With the first rising bubbles of the water.

  With a cup of instant coffee in her hand, Lacey stifled a yawn and walked to the glass-paned door in the dining room. It led to the balcony overlooking the ocean. The breeze blowing from the sea was brisk and invigorating — exactly what she needed to chase the cobwebs of sleep from her head.

  Leaning against a rail, she watched the incoming tide, mesmerized by the waves rushing one after another in to shore. For a while she lost all track of time, sipping at the steaming coffee until the cup was drained.

  The sound of a car engine broke the spell of the waves, and she turned with a frown. The ocean breeze made it difficult to tell where the sound was coming from, but it seemed very near. Probably an early-morning fisherman, she decided and reentered the house.

  In the kitchen, she started to rinse her cup and spoon under the tap. Her dark eyes rounded in surprise at the orange juice glass sitting on the counter.

  "You're losing your grip, gal," she mocked herself as she picked up the dirtied glass. "These early-morning hours must be affecting your memory. You obviously didn't wash the glass as you thought you had."

  Quickly wiping the cup, glass and spoon, she put them in their proper places in the cupboards. A glance at her watch told her she was running behind schedule. She quickly gathered her purse from the bedroom and sped down the stairs to the garage and her car.

  The morning traffic through Norfolk was as heavy as she had thought it would be at that hour. And the congestion at the tunnel under the ship channel to Hampton Road and Newport News lost her a lot of time. She arrived at the office twenty minutes late and spent all morning trying to make up for the lost time.

  Coming back from her lunch break at a crowded café, which was hardly guaranteed to aid the digestion nor calm the nerves, Lacey stopped by the receptionist. One look at Jane's flustered and anxious expression told her that office gossip was not on the girl's mind.

  "That Mr. Whitfield is calling again, Lacey. And he's very upset," Jane burst out. "I told him to call back at one-thirty. I thought Mr. Bowman would be back in his office by then, but he just called to say he was tied up at another job site. Mr. Whitfield is going to be furious when he finds out Mr. Bowman isn't here."

  Lacey's first impulse was to say "Tough!" But she had felt the steel edge of Mr. Whitfield's tongue before and knew why Jane dreaded his call. Using a smile to hide her gritted teeth, she said, "Put the call from Mr. Whitfield through to me. I'll explain."

  She was barely seated behind her desk, her bag stowed in one of the lower drawers, when the interoffice line buzzed. It was Jane, relaying the message that Mr. Whitfield was holding on line two. Lacey murmured a wry thanks at the message.

  "Don't lose your temper," she cautioned herself with a personal pep talk. "Stay calm and pleasant regardless of what he says. Don't do anything that would make matters worse for Mike."

  The advice was excellent, she knew, but just before she took the call she stuck her tongue out at the blinking light. It was a true expression of her feelings at the moment, combined with relief that tomorrow she would be away from Mr. Whitfield and the office for two glorious weeks.

  "Mr. Bowman's office." When she spoke there was enough honey in her voice to fill a hive.
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  "Put me through to Bowman." Impatience crackled in the male voice.

  "I'm sorry, but Mr. Bowman isn't in. I don't expect him until later this afternoon. May I help you?" Lacey kept the saccharine quality in her words and waited for the explosion. It came.

  "I was told —" he began with cold anger.

  "Yes, I know what you were told, Mr. Whitfield," she interrupted sweetly. "He was expected back at one-thirty, but he was unavoidably detained at one of the job sites."

  "So you're claiming that he's not there?" came the taunt.

  "I am not claiming it. I am stating it." It was a delight to hear the smiling confidence in her own voice.

  "I don't know at which job site Bowman is, but I can assure you, Miss —"

  "— Andrews," Lacey supplied.

  "— Miss Andrews, that it isn't mine. Yesterday Bowman promised me a full complement of trades. I've been to the job site, Miss Andrews —" his rich voice was ominously low and freezing in its anger "— and a skeleton could rattle through the building and not find anyone to scare. You tell Bowman when he gets back to his office that I expect to hear from him — immediately!"

  If, as Jane had indicated, there were problems on one of the other job sites, Mike would not be in any mood to contact Mr. Whitfield when he returned. Taking a deep breath, Lacey plunged into her mission of mercy. It was the least she could do after Mike had given her Saturday morning off.

  "I'm familiar with your project, Mr. Whitfield," she volunteered, "and the circumstances that have interfered with its completion. Perhaps I could explain."

  "You?" The taunt was not so much skepticism as it wag mocking contempt.

  Lacey bristled, but steadfastly refused to take the bait of replying in kind. "Yes, Mr. Whitfield, me. I'm aware of what's happening on the various projects, including yours."

  "Which is precisely nothing."

  "For a very good reason," Lacey insisted, her composure cracking for an instant.

  "All right." He accepted her offer to explain with a decided challenge. "Tell me why there aren't any pointers on the job?"