Braden was drinking his third cup of coffee and going through some old sketches, waiting for Melissa, when he saw her coming across the garden. He set down his coffee cup, staring. No more long green dress hid her figure and shortened her stride. She looked smashing—long and sleek, with a lot more showing under the slim orange trousers and pink top of clinging silk. And the red silk scarf tied around her hair set off its multi-colored wildness. As she crossed the veranda and looked in at him, her green eyes nearly drowned him. When he remembered to breathe, he opened the door for her, moving the bowl of cat food out of her way. He had set it on the terrace after the cat marched out refusing to eat; he had thought that maybe later in the day she’d be hungry.
The cat had acted so strangely, glaring at him when he told her she was spoiled because she wouldn’t eat her breakfast. “A little lobster and a few cans of chicken,” he’d said, “and you’re too good to eat anything else.” And almost as if she understood, she had glowered up at him, then stuck her nose in the air and headed for the door, switching her tail impatiently until he let her out.
He watched Melissa now with more than an artist’s appreciation, watched her with increasing desire. “You look great—you have an artist’s eye for color. That orange and pink will be terrific. Have you had breakfast?”
“No, I…” She looked secretive, and blushed. “There was a problem about breakfast.”
“Oh?”
“Nothing really. I just—didn’t eat.” She had a contrite, embarrassed look, and looked faintly amused, too. She didn’t offer an explanation.
Maybe she was living with someone, maybe they’d had a fight and she had left without eating. But why the amusement? Or maybe lovemaking had gotten in the way of breakfast, he thought, annoyed. More than a little irritated, he picked up the canvas bag. “We’ll run over to Tiburon for breakfast, then work in that Victorian house I mentioned. Are you ready?” He went on out ahead of her with his sketching things.
She picked up the picnic basket he had left and followed him. She didn’t know what he was angry about. She didn’t speak again until they were in the car headed for Tiburon. She leaned back in the seat watching the gleam of the bay, searching for something to talk about. What had she done to make him mad? The silence built, making her feel trapped. What was the matter with him? Her feline reaction was to turn away from him. Her human reaction was to try to heal his anger. Was it her amusement about breakfast that had annoyed him? But he couldn’t know what had amused her, so why was he angry? She watched him shyly under lowered lashes, and when the silence grew too much she grasped at the first thing she could think of to talk about. “When you were a boy, when you went to live in Carmel, how old were you?”
He rolled down the window and slowed for a turning car. “Twelve,” he said shortly. “It was when my father died.”
“You and your mother must have had a hard time.” She tried to speak softly. When he glanced at her she said, “You were very lucky to have your Gram.”
She saw him slowly relax. She said, “I think she was a very special person.”
His expression softened reluctantly; he looked at her more directly. “We were lucky to have her, and to have the home she gave us. My mother wasn’t trained to any skill, but she liked working in the hotel. She was good at that—at managing the kitchen, and then at the bookkeeping. She learned that quickly. It was just the right thing for her, and Carmel is small. She liked being in a small place. She liked getting to know people.” He smiled for the first time. “We both liked staying put, not moving around anymore.”
He was quiet a few minutes, working through the heavy morning traffic. She stretched, letting her muscles ease. He said, “When my father was alive we moved from oil field to oil field, my mother made few lasting friends. He was a roustabout—Long Beach, Sunset Beach, Bakersfield. My strongest memory is a succession of little shacky houses with sandy front yards. Hot. There were always fleas in the sand. I would wait all afternoon after school for my father to come home and play ball with me—it was about all he liked to do.
“Our move to Carmel was the first time I was in the same school for more than six months. And Gram was my friend. She wore old faded jeans in a time when women didn’t dress like that. She had worked in a boardinghouse when she was quite young—she was a wonderful cook.
“I used to sit on the dining terrace drawing the guests and waitresses. Gram was the only one who saw any value in my drawings.”
“Your parents didn’t?”
“My dad didn’t think much of it. My mother thought I was clever and talented. She bragged and showed my pictures to the neighbors and to casual acquaintances, which enraged me. She meant well, but she didn’t understand. Gram understood.”
“Then she was special.”
