Carole Page - A Bungalow For Two

“Was?”

“Yes.” He paused, as if deliberating whether to go on. Finally he said in a low, abrupt voice, “She—she died.”

Frannie felt a jolt of emotions—sympathy, empathy, compassion and her own lingering pain. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s been a while.”

“How long?”

“Well over six months.”

Frannie turned the warm mug in her palms. “My mother died seven years ago, and I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

Scott looked away, but not before Frannie saw tears glistening in his eyes. His voice rumbled. “Seven years? Then it sounds like I’ve got a long way to go.”

Frannie searched for words. “Scott, I hope your mother’s Bible has been a comfort for you.”

“I’m trying to find in it what she found.”

“I’m sure she’d be pleased that you kept it.”

His eyes darkened. “It’s the least I could do.” He leaned forward and set his mug on the table, then folded his hands under his chin. His brows furrowed and the lines around his mouth deepened as he gazed at the flames. He was a young man, surely no more than thirty, but the heaviness in his expression made him look old beyond his years.

Frannie had the feeling he was debating whether or not to say more, perhaps even to open up to her about his feelings. She took the initiative. “Losing someone you love… There are no words for it. But it does help to talk about it, even when you don’t know what to say.”

His voice was noncommittal. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And sometimes talking to a stranger is easier than baring your soul to your loved ones.”

He nodded. “Ironic, but true.”

“When my mother died, I didn’t talk about my feelings for a long time. I was afraid my father and sisters would feel worse if they knew how much I was hurting.”

Scott gave her a probing, incisive glance. “Then how did you cope?”

She gazed at the flickering fire for several moments. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure what coping means. I just tried to make it through each day. I prayed a lot. Cried a lot. Ranted a little.” She held up the thumb-worn Bible. “And I looked for answers in this book.”

His lips tightened in a small, ironic smile. “So we have something in common. Two motherless orphans with a penchant for the Holy Scriptures. Extraordinary.”

“Not really. I’ve read the Bible all my life. You might say I was spoon-fed from the cradle.”

“How so?”

“My father’s a minister.”

He looked at her curiously, one brow arching. “Is that so? What’s it like?”

“Being a minister’s daughter?” She chuckled. “Don’t get me going on that subject.”

“Why not? The rain’s not letting up. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Frannie shivered and pulled the blanket back up around her shoulders. He was right. The uncertainty of her situation struck her afresh. She didn’t know the first thing about this man. She might have stepped heedlessly into her worst nightmare. She would have to endure an entire night to find out. She drummed her fingers on the mug. “I really need to let my father know where I am. He’s such a worrywart. He might even come looking for me.”

“He’d be crazy to go out in this weather.”

It was true. Her father wouldn’t be looking for her. He had no idea she even needed him. Frannie sipped her tea. It was lukewarm now. She glanced at her watch. She had been here for nearly two hours. She was cold and exhausted. All she wanted was to be back in her father’s house, in her own bed, safe and sound.

But there was something in the remote, melancholy face of the man sitting in the chair beside her that touched her and piqued her curiosity. Staring morosely into the fire, he looked like the loneliest man in the world. Or maybe that’s the way he wanted it… To be alone. He hadn’t anticipated that he would have to rescue a damsel in distress and take her back to his cottage for the night.

Frannie shifted uneasily on the couch. She drew her legs up under her and tucked the blanket around her knees. Rain still pelted the roof and windows like an invisible intruder, demanding admittance. She cleared her throat and waited to see if her moody companion would break the silence. The rosy glow from the flames danced on his stalwart features, but he remained tight-lipped, stony-faced.

Finally she spoke his name, startling him out of his reverie. “Mr. Winslow?”

He stared at her as if he had forgotten she was there. “Did you say something?”

“Just your name.”

“I’m sorry. My mind wandered. I guess I’m guilty of that a lot these days.”

“No problem. It took me a year after my mother died before I could concentrate on anything again. People talked to me and I never heard a word. I’d try to work and end up staring at a shapeless mound of clay all day.”

Bewilderment flickered in his eyes. “You stared at a mound of clay? I’ve heard of many ways to express grief, but that’s a new one on me.”

Frannie broke into laughter. Scott joined her with a polite, baffled chuckle, but she knew he had no idea what was so funny. She covered her mouth to stifle herself. “I’m sorry. There’s no way you could know. I’m a sculptor. The clay had nothing to do with grieving. It’s my job. What I do.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Now I get it. I’m impressed. I’ve never met a sculptor before.”

She smiled. “Most people look at me with suspicion or pity. They figure I’m in my second childhood or never got out of my first. They can’t imagine a grown woman mucking around in clay all day.”

“Good training for a muddy night like this.”

“I suppose so.”

“And you’re doing what you love best.”

She arched her brows, wide-eyed. “How do you know that?”

He grinned. “I see it in your face. Hear it in your voice. You’re obviously passionate about your work.”

“I didn’t realize it showed.”

“Like neon lights.”

She felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with the fire. “So what do you do?”

He didn’t answer for a full minute. She was about to repeat the question in case he had reverted back into his reverie. But finally he spoke. “What do I do? I walk. I run. I collect driftwood on the beach. I read. I think. Sometimes I even try to pray.”

“Sounds like a very peaceful life. But I meant, what kind of work do you do?”

“I just told you.”

She laughed lightly. “You know what I mean. I assume you have a job to go to. You’re too young to be retired. Oh, I know. You’re on vacation. Renting this cabin for the summer.”

He shook his head, his expression clouding, as if he were deliberately stepping back behind a veil. “This isn’t a summer cottage. It’s my permanent home.”

Frannie ran her fingertips over the scratchy blanket that enveloped her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound nosy. It’s none of my business what line of work you’re in.”

Scott got up and stoked the fire, then sat back down. “I’m not trying to be evasive, Miss Rowlands. The truth is, this is what I do. This is it. I live in this cottage. Sometimes I collect and sell firewood.”

Disappointment scissored through Frannie. She had imagined that her handsome rescuer might be a doctor, lawyer or business tycoon. Surely anything but a common beach bum.

“When I’m in the mood, I build furniture out of driftwood, but it’s not a profitable occupation. It takes me too long to create each piece, and no one’s willing to meet my price.”

“I know the feeling,” Frannie conceded. “Sculpting is like that at times. It’s feast or famine. When I have a commission I’m on easy street. When I don’t, I’m on a penny-pincher’s budget. It was never a problem when I lived at home, but now that I’m on my own…”