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A Bungalow For Two
Carole Gift Page
PEACE, QUIET AND…LOVE?Sculptor Frannie Rowlands figured some time alone at the windswept shore was all she needed to recover from a creative slump–and from her father' s and sisters' weddings. But when a near disaster brought her handsome neighbor to the rescue, Frannie realized that solitude wasn' t the only thing that was good for the soul….At his tranquil beach house, Scott Winslow discovered he could live the simple life he craved. Now the reclusive billionaire had unexpectedly found something else there: a woman who had no idea who he was, a woman who might be able to love the real Scott–if only she would let herself….



“Scott, why don’t you just come with me to church?”
His brows furrowed. “No, Frannie. I can’t. I’m not ready for that.”
“Not ready for what? Mingling with the rest of humanity? What’s wrong with you, Scott? Why do you avoid people? Who are you hiding from?”
Scott pushed back his chair, sprang to his feet and strode over to the window. “You don’t understand, Frannie.”
“Then explain it. We’re friends, Scott, and yet I feel like you’re a stranger.”
He gazed out the window, then back at her. “Someday I’ll tell you everything. But until then, you have to trust me. That’s all I can say right now.”

CAROLE GIFT PAGE
writes from the heart about issues facing women today. A prolific author of over 40 books and 800 stories and articles, she has published both fiction and nonfiction with a dozen major Christian publishers, including Thomas Nelson, Moody Press, Crossway Books, Bethany House, Tyndale House and Harvest House. An award-winning novelist, Carole has received the C.S. Lewis Honor Book Award and been a finalist several times for the prestigious Gold Medallion Award and the Campus Life Book of the Year Award.
A frequent speaker at churches, conferences, conventions, schools and retreats around the country, Carole shares her testimony (based on her inspiring new book, Becoming a Woman of Passion) and encourages women everywhere to discover and share their deepest passions, to keep passion alive on the home front and to unleash their passion for Christ.
Born and raised in Jackson, Michigan, Carole taught creative writing at Biola University in La Mirada, California, and serves on the advisory board of the American Christian Writers. She and her husband, Bill, live in Southern California and have three children (besides Misty in heaven) and three beautiful grandchildren.

A Bungalow for Two
Carole Gift Page

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
No soldier in active service entangles himself
in the affairs of everyday life, so that he may
please the One who enlisted him as a soldier.
—2 Timothy 2:4
In loving memory of Jason Michael Williams.
February 13, 1981–April 11, 2001
With a heart for God, a passion for life,
great devotion to his family and friends
and an insatiable appetite for adventure,
Jason touched countless lives in countless ways.
All who knew him loved him.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Letter to Reader

Chapter One
Andrew Rowlands was dreaming. An odd dream really. He was about to be married to the lovely Juliana Pagliarulo, but he couldn’t find his darling daughters. Surely the wedding couldn’t begin without them. He darted among his smiling, well-attired guests, inquiring, “Have you seen my daughters?”
No one had.
And then amid the cacophony of voices and laughter swirling around him, he heard a familiar voice.
“Daddy?”
It was his oldest daughter, Cassandra, in a mauve bridesmaid dress. She came slipping through the crowd with her handsome husband, Antonio, Juliana’s son. In her arms Cassie carried a precious bundle, Andrew’s first grandson. “Be happy, Daddy,” she said, giving him a hug, and squeezing one-month-old Daniel between them.
“I couldn’t be happier than I am today, Cassie. I’ve got all my family around me.”
He spotted his second daughter in the throng. His dear Brianna with Eric Wingate, her dashing groom. Beside them stood their soon-to-be-adopted daughter, Charity, looking like an angel in pink chiffon. Andrew strode over and swung the precocious two-year-old up in his arms. “How’s my beautiful little Blue Eyes?”
The child tossed back her blond ringlets and laughed. “I not little, Gampaw. I big girl!”
Matching her laughter, Andrew kissed her shiny hair, then set her down. “Yes, you certainly are Grandpa’s big girl!”
“Oh, Daddy, isn’t she the prettiest flower girl you ever saw?” Brianna said in her lyrical voice.
Andrew winked at his daughter. “No prettier than the bride who’s going to be her mother.”
Brianna swept into Andrew’s arms with a tender embrace, her ivory-white wedding gown swishing around her.
“I love you, Daddy,” she whispered, stepping back and blowing Andrew a kiss. “Isn’t this a glorious day…the four of us having a double wedding?”
“Wonderful!” Andrew crooned. “Nothing better than standing at the altar with my ravishing bride and my precious daughter and her intended.”
“We’re all going to live happily ever after, Daddy. Happily ever after…”
The dream darkened after that. The festive crowd in the wedding chapel receded behind a mist of swirling shadows. A storm was gathering, with voluminous clouds rolling over a shrouded earth. The noise was deafening, drowning out the sounds of celebration rising from the chapel.
“Where’s Frannie?” Andrew shouted through the gloom. “Who’s seen my youngest daughter?”
The murky darkness cleared, as if someone had pulled back a curtain, and Andrew saw her, his beloved Frannie, who had cared for him like a mother hen. She was dressed in black and kneeling at her mother’s grave, the grave of his cherished Mandy, gone seven years now.
Andrew held out a hand to his daughter. “Frannie, come! The wedding’s about to begin. Your sisters and I are waiting for you.”
She stared back with tears in her eyes. “No, Daddy. I can’t! I won’t!”
“Honey, please! It won’t be the same without you.”
“How can you do this, Daddy? How can you forsake Mom and marry a stranger? I’ll never forgive you, Daddy!”
“No, Frannie, it’s not like that.” Andrew reached out, but the shadows closed around his daughter, and she was gone.
“Come back, Frannie! I don’t want to lose you, sweetheart…!”
Andrew woke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. Thank goodness, it was just a dream. A silly dream. Everything was okay. Normal as an old shoe. The double wedding had gone off without a hitch nearly two weeks ago, the first of July. And just last night he and Juliana had returned, happy and exhilarated, from their Caribbean honeymoon.
Now he was here in his own home again, surrounded by everything familiar, waking as he always did to the summer sun streaming in his bedroom window. But this time, there was one major exception. Lying in bed next to him was his sleeping bride, the sun casting gold ribbons across her ivory face and bare shoulder.
The warm sunlight reminded him that all was well in his life. Better than it had been in years. He had so much for which to be grateful…a devoted wife and two daughters happily married with families of their own.
He had kept his promise to Mandy. “Find our girls good husbands,” she had told him during their last hours together. It had been her dying wish. “And find a good woman for yourself, Andrew. You’ll need someone to look after you.”
Yes, he had done that too. God had given him his exquisite Juliana.
And now, with his two oldest daughters married, that left just one daughter. Frannie, his youngest. A chill rippled though him as he recalled his unsettling dream. Those shadowy, nightmarish images had captured his underlying concern for Frannie. She had taken Mandy’s death the hardest. With everyone else in the family married, she seemed so alone, at loose ends, drifting. Surely one of these days the right man would come along for her. It was one of Andrew’s most fervent prayers.
And until then, he didn’t want Frannie feeling abandoned, just because he had a brand-new family to fuss over. But the truth was, he would have his hands full with his vivacious Juliana and her grown daughter.
If ever a young woman needed a father, it was shy, skittish Belina. She had already endured enough trials and heartaches for a lifetime—the car crash, her father’s death, her own disability and disfigurement. But with surgery, counseling and rehabilitation, she had come a long way over the past two years.
Andrew hoped against hope that Frannie would take Belina under her wing and become a real sister to her. Of course, Frannie was stubborn and headstrong and didn’t warm to just anybody. She was possessive and overprotective, too, but that was partly Andrew’s fault. He had been so needy after Mandy’s death, he had allowed his youngest daughter to pamper and mollycoddle him. While he had thrown himself into his ministerial duties at the church, she had taken over the cooking and household chores like a faithful little trooper.
Even when his two older daughters began making lives for themselves, Frannie was the one who dug in her heels and refused to budge. She was going to stay home and take care of her daddy, no matter what. No wonder she had resisted the idea of him bringing home a new bride and stepdaughter.
But Andrew was just as determined as Frannie. With Cassie and Brianna married now and establishing homes of their own, he would encourage Frannie to find in Juliana and Belina the motherly and sisterly companionship she missed.
It was a long shot, to be sure. In temperament, Frannie and Juliana were like oil and water. Add to the mix Belina’s reclusive personality, and you had a recipe for trouble. But, as he had learned long ago, with God all things were possible. More than once, Andrew had staked his life on that Scriptural principle.
Another unmistakable reality confronted Andrew. The Rowlands household was going to be a very different place from now on. How drastically it had changed in the past seven years, starting with Mandy’s death, then Cassie’s marriage, then the double wedding of Andrew and Juliana and Brianna and Eric. And now Brianna had moved out just as Cassie had, and Juliana and his new stepdaughter had moved in.
Andrew rolled over and gazed again at his sleeping bride. Lightly he caressed a strand of her shiny black hair that rippled over the pillow. He yearned to sweep her up in his arms, but she looked so peaceful, he was reluctant to startle her.
It still hardly seemed possible that God had blessed him with two remarkable women in one lifetime. Naturally, Juliana was nothing like Mandy; they were as opposite as night and day. Mandy had been quiet, self-assured, delicate, refined. Juliana was fun-loving, flamboyant, larger than life.
Andrew rested his arms under his head and looked up at the ceiling. Over the years he had grown so accustomed to talking to Mandy in his mind that it was a hard habit to break, even with Juliana lying beside him.
Mandy, he mused with a wry half smile, can you believe it? Here I am with Juliana. My wife. She isn’t like you, nothing like you. But, oh, I love her. It doesn’t mean I loved you any less. No one can replace you, Mandy. But Juliana’s a delight. She’s full of laughter and exuberance and song. She’s impetuous and unpredictable.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever keep up with her. I’ll never corral her spirit, but that’s part of why I love her. She isn’t you, Mandy. I knew you like I know my own soul, and I’ll never forget you, darling. You taught me what love is all about, showed me how to open my heart and cherish a woman. Because of what you taught me about life and love, I believe I can make Juliana happy. Do I have your blessing, Mandy? I’d like to think I do.
Juliana’s drowsy voice inquired, “Andrew? Are you okay?”
With a start he looked over at his wife. She had propped herself up on one elbow, her ebony hair cascading over her milky-white shoulders.
“Sure, I’m fine,” he said, running his fingers over her arm. How could he confess to his lovely bride that he had been carrying on a mental conversation with his long-deceased wife?
“You looked so deep in thought. A million miles away.”
“Yes, at least that,” he conceded.
“Pleasant thoughts, I hope.”
“Absolutely. What else on a sunny morning with my new bride beside me?” He reached over and gathered her into his arms. She nestled her head on his bare chest and he caught the scent of magnolias. How good she felt in his arms. He could hold her like this forever!
Being a man over the half-century mark in years, he hadn’t expected to feel such a rush of what could only be described as youthful emotions. What a power there was in love. Falling in love was an indescribable intoxicant. With Juliana in his arms, he felt ageless, invincible; there was nothing he couldn’t accomplish. He turned her lovely face up to his and kissed her soundly.
When she caught her breath, she murmured, “Andrew, dearest, what a wonderful way to start the day. Maybe we should skip breakfast and spend the entire morning—”
A determined knock on the door jarred them both.
“We’re sleeping,” Andrew called out, stifling his vexation.
“Not anymore!” The door eased open and Frannie peeked inside, her long blond hair flowing around her shoulders. She was wearing a tank top and cutoffs that showed off her golden tan. “Time for breakfast, you sleepyheads. It’s almost nine, and you never go past 8:00 a.m., Daddy.”
Andrew released Juliana, and she slipped down modestly under the covers.
Andrew cleared his throat uneasily and folded his arms over his bare chest. “We were thinking of skipping breakfast this morning, sweetheart.”
“No, Daddy, it’s not good for you to skip a meal. Besides, I have a surprise for your first morning home.” Frannie breezed inside with a serving tray and set it on the bedside table.
As Andrew hoisted himself up, he caught the inviting aromas of bacon and coffee. “Honey, it smells wonderful, but—”
Juliana sat up, too, tucking the sheet around her shoulders. “Breakfast in bed? Oh, Frannie, you shouldn’t have.”
Frannie beamed. “It’s nothing really. Just bacon and eggs and cinnamon toast. Daddy’s usual.”
Juliana gave Frannie a stricken look. “Oh, dear, your father shouldn’t be eating such things! Think of his cholesterol!”
Andrew reached for a slice of toast. “My cholesterol is fine and dandy, thank you.”
Juliana lifted her chin truculently. “I don’t care what you say, Andrew. A man your age should not be eating such fatty foods!”
“What do you mean, a man my age? What’s wrong with my age?”
“Nothing is wrong with your age. But I intend to see that you live several more decades.”
“By depriving me of bacon and eggs?”
Frannie snatched up the tray. “Listen, I could get you both something else. How about some cereal and yogurt?”
Juliana tossed back her waves of coal-black hair. “Thank you, Frannie. I will tell you the truth. I rarely eat breakfast. Maybe a little fruit now and then.”
Frannie stepped back toward the door, her countenance darkening. “I’ll remember that tomorrow, Juliana.”
“Dear, please do not worry about your father and me. I will get our breakfast from now on. I am sure you have more important things to do.”
“Nothing more important than taking care of my dad.”
Andrew winced at the disappointment etched in his daughter’s face. “We just don’t want to put you out, honey.”
“Your father is right. You work too hard. From now on I will fix breakfast.”
“That’s not necessary, Juliana. Daddy likes me to get his breakfast. Besides, I know just how he likes it.”
Juliana flashed her most winsome smile. “But now it is time for me to learn.”
Why did Andrew have the uneasy feeling he was witnessing a battle of wills, and he was the prize? With her trained voice and Italian accent, Juliana’s words sounded almost lyrical. But Andrew could see them hitting Frannie like barbs. “You have had to take care of your father long enough, dear girl, and you have done a wonderful job. But you have your own life to live, and it’s time your father let you live it.”
“Wait a minute!” Andrew declared, raising his hands in a conciliatory, if not defensive, gesture. He could see trouble coming at him like a stampeding bull. “Hold on! Let’s get this straight. I’ve never said Frannie couldn’t live her own life. And I certainly never asked her to stay home and take care of me.”
The misery in Frannie’s eyes deepened. “You didn’t have to ask, Daddy. I did it for Mother.”
Andrew groaned. His awkward attempt to defuse the situation was igniting a firestorm too hot to handle. “Doll baby, your mom never would have expected you to sacrifice your life for me.”
Frannie’s big blue eyes clouded. “Sacrifice? Is that what you think I’ve been doing? Daddy, I thought you liked the way I took care of you!”
“I did, honey. I do! But I want so much more for you. Juliana’s right. You need a life of your own.”
Frannie balanced the tray and gripped the doorknob. Her lower lip quivered. “Don’t beat around the bush. Just say it, Daddy! Now that you’ve got a new wife and daughter, I’m not needed around here anymore!”
Before Andrew could muster a reply, Frannie pivoted and marched out the door, slamming it so hard behind her, the walls rattled.
He threw back the covers and was about to go after his daughter, but Juliana stopped him and coaxed him back into bed. “You can’t go after her dressed like that, Andrew. Let her be. She will get over it. We are a new family now. We all have adjustments to make. It will take time.” She snuggled against his chest and he caught the delectable scent of her hair.
“Time?” he murmured, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. That heady, intoxicating feeling was sweeping over him again. “My darling bride, do you suppose we have time for…” He let his words trail off as Juliana raised her face to his and kissed his lips with an ardor that left him breathless.
“My darling Andrew,” she said in that throaty, beguiling voice of hers, “for you, there is always time!”

Chapter Two
Panic was growing inside Frannie like mushrooms in the dark. In June she had received a handsome commission to sculpt a bust of Longfellow for the La Jolla Children’s Museum—due by the end of summer. It was already July, and all she could do was sit and stare at a mound of lifeless clay.
Try as she might, Frannie couldn’t muster a shred of creativity. Her mind felt dry, numb, dead. She wondered if she had ever had a creative thought in her life. Had she ever experienced that flaming impulse to create something from nothing, or nearly nothing? Had she in the past actually molded fine sculptures—not masterpieces, of course, but still quality work—from heaps of wet, shapeless clay?
Where was the artist she had been just a few short weeks ago? How could her talent have fled so swiftly, so completely?
Every time she thought of sinking her fingers into that formless mass, she remembered something else she needed to do—some mindless chore or task that wouldn’t usually demand her attention. With a sigh of resignation, she would drape the clay with a wet cloth, as if covering a dead body with a shroud. Then she would escape to another part of her house and fiddle with something, or busy herself in the kitchen, or stare out the window, or pester her father in his study—anything to keep from facing the task at hand, the challenge of pulling life and form out of that silent blob of gray earth.
Today held the same lack of promise. Right after breakfast, Frannie had gone to the sunroom to work. She had pored over a dozen drawings of the old poet and sketched several hurried renderings of her own. Then she had kneaded the clay until her fingers ached, until she admitted at last that she wasn’t in the mood to create. God help her, she had lost her vision for the work.
Once, days or weeks ago, she had felt that creative impulse in her fingers, in her mind, in her heart. But now it was gone. An empty place remained, a vacuum, a hollow in her soul that nothing seemed to fill.
She had heard of writers and artists hitting a dry spell, suffering writer’s block and questioning their talent. But it hadn’t happened to her. At least, not for several years. Not since…yes, she remembered now…not since her mother’s death seven years ago.
For two years after her mother died, she hadn’t been able to create a thing. She was seventeen at the time, fresh out of high school and just beginning her freshman year at San Diego State. Majoring in art, of course, as she had always planned. But every time she thought of creating something—a painting, a drawing, a vase or a piece of sculpture, she felt a knot of pain in her heart.
It was as if the idea of creation, even producing something as mundane as an object of art, signified a birth. The paradox was that her heart was deluged with the reality of death. But at last, praise God, when she began her junior year of college she experienced a breakthrough. Her creativity returned in a rush. She changed her major from art education to fine arts and completed her B.A. two years later.
And in the five years since then, her skill and reputation as a sculptor had grown. She was even teaching a night class at San Diego State…and the commissions were coming often enough that she had bankrolled a tidy sum in her savings account.
Yes, her life these days had been good, very good. Even though her evenings were devoid of romance, her routine had been satisfying and stable…. Until the last few weeks, when Frannie’s world turned topsy-turvy—the day her father brought home his new bride and stepdaughter. Since then, nothing had been the same.
Take today, for example. In the past (B.J.—before Juliana), Frannie would have risen at seven and fixed her father’s and Brianna’s breakfast. The three of them would have sat around the table chatting about their plans for the day. They would have held hands and prayed together before going their separate ways.
But now that Brianna was married and setting up housekeeping in her own country estate, Frannie was lucky to see her once a week. And Cassie, with her new baby, stopped by even less often. Even when her sisters dropped in to visit, they chatted only about their happy new lives and then were quickly on their way. They were so busy and preoccupied, they were totally unaware that Frannie felt lonely and left behind.
It wasn’t that the house was empty now. Frannie could have tolerated that. She had never minded long periods of solitude. The silence sometimes even stirred her creative juices. Peace and quiet were welcome friends.
But, in fact, the old Rowlands’ homestead wasn’t silent; it was as bustling as ever. It reverberated with noise and voices and music and laughter. But except for her father, the sounds belonged to strangers, not to the people Frannie loved.
In truth, even her father was different now. The dynamics had changed. He was a man absorbed with pleasing his wife. Where Frannie’s happy home had once comfortably contained a father and three daughters, now her father was half of a newlywed couple occupying the premises. And each had a daughter. To complicate matters, Frannie and Belina were virtual strangers and had no desire to be anything more.
These days, Frannie’s home was filled with Juliana’s laughter and songs. In her youth, Juliana had performed on the New York stage and in the opera houses of Europe. Now her full, lilting soprano wafted through the Rowlands house a dozen times a day…as Juliana cooked and cleaned, as she taught voice lessons to eager children and led a women’s Bible study twice a week in the parlor. Juliana was obviously determined to become the quintessential minister’s wife—a fact Frannie resented.
But if Frannie begrudged the way Juliana had taken over her home, she was equally disturbed by the stealthy comings and goings of the mysterious Belina. The aloof, raven-haired girl was like a ghost, flitting through the house noiselessly, rarely speaking or making eye contact. She spent most of her time alone in her room doing who knew what.
Frannie was just as glad that she didn’t have to make polite conversation with the strange young woman. What would they talk about? They had nothing in common…except that Belina’s mother was married to Frannie’s father.
Every morning, when Frannie awoke, she told herself, Maybe today things will be different. This will seem like my home again. I’ll feel comfortable around Belina and Juliana. We’ll begin to be a family at last.
But as quickly as she made her resolves, they were shattered by some minor event that caught Frannie unawares, that brought her up short and reminded her she was living in a vastly different household. It happened again today, the last week of July, just over two weeks since her father had brought Juliana home from their honeymoon.
This morning was the last straw for Frannie, because the incident involved someone dear to her heart. Ruggs, the family dog, an ancient, longhaired mongrel, had tracked mud all over Juliana’s freshly waxed floor. Juliana chased him out the back door with a broom. Frannie had never seen the old dog run so fast or yelp so loud. The sound nearly broke Frannie’s heart.
The problem was, Juliana just didn’t get it. She considered Ruggs a scroungy old dog that was always getting in the way. She didn’t understand that he was as much a member of the family as anyone. When Juliana shooed Ruggs out the door, it was as if she had shooed Frannie out, too.
Ten years ago, Brianna had found the scrawny, abandoned puppy on the street, hungry and shivering. She had brought him home and nursed him back to health, the way she nurtured everyone she came in contact with. And for ten years Ruggs had been king of the castle. There was no way Juliana was going to convince him he was just a mangy mutt.
The incident with Ruggs had left Frannie feeling more resentful of Juliana than ever. How dare that woman take over Frannie’s home and chase her dog outside? The trouble was, these days Frannie felt as unwelcome as Ruggs in her own house. No wonder she wasn’t in the mood to sculpt Longfellow’s bust.
Even as she sat in the sunroom contemplating the mountain of clay on her worktable, Frannie could hear Juliana bustling about in the kitchen, crooning the lyrics from some Italian aria. Frannie worked with the clay for a few minutes, dipping her hands in a container of water and wetting down the gray mound. It still wasn’t taking shape the way she wanted. It was as if the stubborn mass refused to relinquish the form hidden within.
Usually Frannie could work her artistic magic. A mysterious connection formed between her mind and hands; they worked together in a way Frannie herself couldn’t comprehend. It was as if some secret force within her recognized the shape inside the mass and freed it, then she molded it until it came to life under her fingers.
That was the way it was supposed to work. But not today. In exasperation, Frannie pounded the clay with her fists, then tossed the wet cloth over it and went to the deep sink to wash her hands. If she couldn’t sculpt anything worthwhile, she might as well go help Juliana in the kitchen. She emerged from the sunroom just as Juliana hit a high note that rattled the crystal on the buffet.
Frannie ambled over to the kitchen sink where Juliana was scouring a black kettle, and said, “Looks like you could use some help.”
Juliana whirled around and clasped her hand to her ample bosom. “Oh, dear girl, you startled me!”
“I’m sorry. I was going stir-crazy in the sunroom. The Longfellow bust—it’s just not working for me.”
“Oh, what a shame. Give it time, dear. It’ll come.” Juliana’s rosy lips pursed together, forming a tiny rosebud of sympathy. She extended a graceful hand and touched Frannie’s cheek with long, tapered fingers, her perfectly manicured nails a bright vermillion. “I have had many times when the music would not come, when I had to labor for every note. The arts do not give away their secrets easily. We must stretch and strain for every victory. But to create something beautiful is worth all the pain. It is like giving birth. Agony and ecstasy tied together. The agony of releasing something precious from within your secret self. And the ecstasy of holding in your hands a new life that only you and God could have created.”
Frannie nodded distractedly. She wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical discussion about creativity.
Juliana set the kettle on the gas range, then reached for a can of tomatoes. Frannie’s stomach knotted as she watched Juliana move about the kitchen as if she had already memorized—and claimed—every inch of it. She already considers it her private domain! Frannie noted grudgingly.
How could her father be so captivated by a woman like Juliana? The ebony-haired matron looked nothing like Frannie’s idea of a minister’s wife. Juliana was a buxom, brassy woman who made a habit of wearing colorful, formfitting dresses that were just short of being tacky. All right, so on Juliana they somehow managed to look classy in a dramatic, theatrical sort of way. That still didn’t explain how her father could be so smitten by this flashy woman.
“What are you making?” Frannie asked as Juliana gathered an array of spices from the shelf.
Juliana paused and smiled at Frannie, her rosy face brightening. “I’m making spaghetti. Your father’s favorite. We are entertaining his ministerial staff here tonight.”
Frannie straightened, suddenly alert. “Tonight? They’re coming for dinner? Why didn’t Daddy tell me? He knows I teach my class tonight. There’s no way I can fix spaghetti.”
Juliana gently patted Frannie’s arm. “No, dear girl, you don’t understand. I will fix the spaghetti.”
Frannie drew back from Juliana’s touch. “But I always fix the spaghetti. Daddy won’t be happy if I don’t.”
Juliana opened the cupboard and removed several cans of tomato sauce, then turned back to Frannie. “Well, we will straighten him out, won’t we? We will tell him it’s time for a change. I will fix my family’s secret Italian recipe. I am sure your father will find it delightful.”
Frannie wanted to retort, It won’t be as good as mine! But she held her tongue. No sense in making waves. Her father would just take Juliana’s side. “Well, let me know if you need any help.”
“Thanks, dear. I’m fine.” Juliana waved her ringed fingers in the air. “You go work on your sculpture.”
A storm cloud of resentment swirled in Frannie’s chest. Before she said something she regretted, Frannie strode back down the hall to the sunroom. As she looked back, she caught a glimpse of Belina slipping like a silent shadow into the kitchen. She was waiting for me to leave! The girl was so antisocial, she made every effort to avoid encounters with Frannie. What’s her problem? Does she hate me? How can I live in the same house with someone who doesn’t even want to look me in the eye or say good morning!
Frannie knew as soon as she sat down and gazed at the leaden mound of clay that she wasn’t going to get any work done today. “Might as well take a drive and clear my head.”
Frannie ran upstairs to her room and grabbed her purse off the bureau. On her way out the door she noticed Ruggs crouching on the floor by her bed. “Hey, boy, how did you get back in the house? Oh, I bet Daddy let you in, didn’t he? While Juliana wasn’t looking!”
Frannie knelt down and wrapped her arms around the rangy, mop-haired dog. He made a whining sound and ran his rough tongue over her arm. His shiny black eyes peered yearningly at her through several shanks of sandy-brown hair.
“Poor baby. Are you still smarting from your scolding this morning? Queen Juliana banished you from the kitchen, didn’t she?” Frannie stood up, smoothed her jeans and beckoned the shaggy mongrel to follow her. “Come, boy. Let’s go for a joyride!”
She scrambled down the stairs, with Ruggs bounding right behind her. She took long strides down the hall, peeked in her father’s study and told him she was taking Ruggs for a ride to keep him out of Juliana’s hair. Her father looked up from his sermon notes with a distracted smile and told her to have fun.
“Sure, Daddy. See you later.” She sighed dispiritedly as she headed out the door. He doesn’t have a clue how miserable I am since he married Juliana! Not a clue!
Outside, in the driveway, Frannie opened the passenger door of her shiny yellow sports car and coaxed Ruggs inside. “Sit still now and be a good boy.”
Out on the open road, she looked over at Ruggs and grinned. Her hirsute pet sat tall, panting happily as the warm breeze rolled through the open window and fanned his heavy fur.
“Let’s go to the ocean and be beach bums for a day,” she suggested, as if expecting a reply. Ruggs accommodated her with an agreeable yip.
She took La Jolla Shores Drive for several miles, then turned off on a small winding road that led to a lonely expanse of beach. She parked beside the road, let Ruggs out and the two ambled across the sand under a shimmering white-hot sun. At the water’s edge, she pulled off her sandals, rolled up her pant legs and waded barefoot into the cool water. Ruggs started to follow, then backed up as a wave rippled over his paws.
Frannie laughed. “Oh, come on, you chicken. Come in the water! You won’t melt.”
Ruggs took another lumbering step backward and shook himself. No dip in the sea for him. He was staying high and dry.
As if to defy her stubborn pet, Frannie waded out deeper. A ringlet of seaweed caught her ankle. She kicked it away and noticed a creamy white shell in the water. She stooped down, picked it up and brushed off the wet sand. It was a perfect shell. She breathed in the fresh, briny air, filling her lungs. There was something she loved about the beach. A sense of freedom and adventure, as if the world were wide open, boundless, offering endless possibilities. And yet, somehow, standing there, she could stretch out her arms and touch the earth from end to end.
“I could stay here forever,” she told Ruggs. “I feel like I could sit down right here and sink my hands in the wet sand and create something beautiful.”
Ruggs ignored her and pawed at something slimy on the hard-packed sand. Frannie chose not to look too closely. “Come on, Ruggsy,” she urged. “Let’s explore!”
She slogged a while through the ankle-deep water, then made her way up the beach and padded across the warm, uneven sand. They had walked a quarter mile when Frannie spotted an old clapboard beach house nestled beside a rocky protuberance. Jutting cliffs dotted with palm trees rose beyond the modest little house. The place looked empty, its door padlocked. A weathered sign stood at an angle beside the house. It said For Rent. Call 555-7878.
Frannie shaded her eyes and gazed into the distance along the isolated beach. There were other houses, but they were far and few between. Anyone living in this house would have complete privacy, not to mention peace and quiet.
“This is just what we need, Ruggs. A place to call our own, with no one to disturb us. What do you say, boy? Shall we check it out?”
Ruggs galumphed toward the house. Frannie caught up with him as he clambered onto the small wood-frame porch and pawed the warped pine door. Frannie rubbed a layer of dirt off the window and peered inside. To her surprise, the little house was furnished. To be sure, the modest furnishings looked a bit dilapidated, but comfortable.
“Wouldn’t it be a hoot to move into this place? What do you think, Ruggs?” she asked, as if the pooch might actually respond.
He backed up and let out an approving howl. At least, that’s how she chose to interpret it.
“So you like it, too, boy. It’s something to think about.” She memorized the phone number and gave the house another once-over, then she and Ruggs headed back down the beach to her car.
Until now she had never seriously considered moving out of her father’s house. As long as he had needed her, she had vowed to be there for him. But the bitter truth was, he didn’t need her anymore. He had Juliana and her strange, reclusive daughter, and he seemed perfectly content to make them his family now.
But maybe her father’s marriage was a blessing in disguise. Frannie was twenty-four now, too old to still be living at home under her daddy’s watchful eye. Maybe it was time to step out, explore the world and carve a new life for herself. There was no telling what—or who—awaited her in this vast, beckoning land.

Chapter Three
For two days, Frannie put off phoning the rental number to inquire about the beach house. She vacillated between excitement at the prospect of moving into a place of her own and horror at the thought of leaving her father and the home she had lived in all her life. Wouldn’t moving out show that she had truly given up on salvaging her family? Or was God trying to tell her something, nudging her to take responsibility for her own life and future?
On the third day, Frannie gathered her courage and dialed the number. She learned the house was still available and the rent was less than she might have expected for beachfront property, even though the house was a bit dilapidated. “I’ll take it,” she heard herself saying. Her heart began to pound with anticipation and a pinch of anxiety.
What am I doing? she asked herself the next day as she drove to the beach house to meet the real estate agent for an official walk-through. “What could I have been thinking?” she wondered aloud an hour later as she returned home with a signed rental agreement and a set of keys.
That evening she cornered her father in his study and told him the news. By the stunned look on his face, she might as well have told him she was taking the next shuttle into space.
“Aren’t you happy here, sugar plum?” he asked blankly.
She fought the tears gathering in her eyes. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—lose control. All she could manage to blurt out was “You have Juliana now, and you like her spaghetti better than mine!”
He got up from his desk, came around and drew her into his arms. “Spaghetti? This is about spaghetti?”
“No, Daddy. It’s just…you don’t need me anymore. You have a new family.”
He caressed her hair. “I’ll always need you, baby cakes. You know that. I need you to be my loving daughter, but not my cook, housekeeper and caretaker. I let you fill those roles much too long.” He kissed her forehead. “And who says I like Juliana’s spaghetti better than yours? Nothing can top yours.”
Frannie sniffled like a sulking child. “You’re not just saying that?”
Her father grinned broadly. “Are you kidding? I’m a minister of the Gospel. I’m committed to telling the truth, and only the truth. And the truth is, I saw this coming. I understand why you’d want a place of your own. But I’ll miss you like crazy, pumpkin. And no matter where you go or what you do, nobody can take your place in my heart.”
She smiled through her tears. “Then I have your blessing?”
“My blessing, my love and my prayers. I just ask you to make sure this is what you really want. And promise me, anytime you decide this isn’t for you, you’ll come home.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll come home to visit. I’ll be here so often, you’ll get sick of me.”
“Never in a million years.” Her father kissed her forehead, then clasped her face in his large hands. “This beach house—is it safe? In a good area?”
“Of course, Daddy. It’s perfect.”
“Well, I have an idea. Why don’t you take Ruggs with you? I’d feel better knowing he’s there to protect you.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
Her father winked. “Juliana’s not too fond of the old boy anyway. You take him.”
Frannie threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Thank you, Daddy! Thank you!”
She turned to leave, but he caught her hand. “You know, there’s someone else who’s going to miss you. Now Belina won’t have anyone in the house her age to hang out with.”
Frannie rolled her eyes. Was it possible her father really didn’t have a clue about Belina? “Daddy, she’ll be very happy to have me out of here. You just wait and see.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. I think she’d like the two of you to be friends.”
“Then she can come visit me at my beach house.” Fat chance that would ever happen!
Her father seemed to think that was a good idea. “I’ll tell her that. She used to live on the beach. I bet she misses it.”
“Whatever,” Frannie mumbled. Spooky Belina was the last person she wanted hanging out at her new place, but she couldn’t tell her father that.
The next afternoon, after lunch, her father helped her carry her things out to the car. She wasn’t taking much—some clothes, toiletries, her Bible, CD player, boombox and enough dishes, pots and pans and utensils to accommodate one person. On the weekend her father and Juliana’s son, Antonio, would rent a truck and bring out all her art supplies and equipment from the sunroom.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you today?” her father asked as she coaxed Ruggs into the passenger seat. “I could help you settle in. The place might need some work. I could get my toolbox and—”
“No, Daddy, you stay here. I’m fine. I’ve got to do this myself. I’m grown up, Dad. I’m not Daddy’s little girl anymore.” She didn’t add that she feared her father would have a fit if he saw how desolate and in disrepair the beach house was. She could hear him now. I won’t have my daughter living in a hovel like this! And look how isolated you are! It’s not safe. What if someone breaks in—?
No, she didn’t want him seeing her new home until she’d had a chance to settle in and spruce it up a bit. Once she had all her things in place, her father would be reluctant to insist she move out and come home.
It was late afternoon before Frannie pulled her vehicle into the small, rutted driveway beside her new home. Her heart was pounding with excitement as she slipped out of her car, let Ruggs out and walked across the beach to the modest dwelling. “Well, here we are, Ruggsy. Home at last!” She stuck the key in the lock and turned it, then gingerly opened the door. It creaked on its hinges. She made a mental note: Oil the hinges. She stepped inside and gazed around at her very own domicile.
The thought came to her: Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home. Her gaze flitted over the hardwood floor, the paneled walls, braided throw rugs, pine tables with hurricane lamps and several pieces of overstuffed furniture, worn and sagging, but adequate. Besides the small bedroom and bath down the narrow hallway, the house consisted of one large room, with a breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living area and a rustic stone fireplace taking up most of one wall.
Frannie sank down on the lumpy couch and bounced gently, testing the springs. “Well, they’re right about the humble part. It’s not Beverly Hills. But we’ll get along just fine, won’t we, Ruggsy?”
Ruggs loped around the room, sniffing every corner, then settled on the braided rug at Frannie’s feet. She reached down and massaged his floppy ears. “We can’t sit around loafing all day, Ruggs. We’ve got work to do.” She riffled through her purse and found her cell phone. “I’d better call the phone company and see when they can start service. Can’t depend on my cell phone forever.” She punched in the numbers and waited, then tossed the phone back in her purse. “Might know. In all my excitement, I forgot to charge the battery last night. We’re off to a good start, aren’t we!”
She got up and went to her kitchenette and turned on the spigot. The pipes groaned and clattered. Rusty water finally sputtered from the faucet. “Doesn’t look like this place has been occupied in ages.” She opened the cupboards. They would need to be washed out and lined before she stocked them. “Looks like I’d better bring in my stuff and find the detergent.”
It took several trips to unload her car. She couldn’t believe she had packed so much. And wait till her father came with the rest of her stuff on Saturday! Now that she had boxes, sacks and suitcases everywhere, the place looked smaller than ever. And a bit grungy, if she was honest about it. No second thoughts! she warned herself. You wanted a place of your own, and now you’ve got it. Make the best of it!
For the next hour she scrubbed the kitchen cupboards. While they weren’t exactly gleaming, they finally looked tolerable.
“I’m done! They’ll have to do.” Wiping her chapped hands on a paper towel, she looked over at Ruggs, ensconced by the stone fireplace. “Guess I’d better make a trip to the grocery store, or we’ll be having stale granola bars and rusty water for dinner. You stay here, boy, and keep an eye on the place, and I’ll bring you back your favorite doggie treats.”
Ruggs barked and wagged his tail.
Frannie grabbed up her purse, checked for her keys and retraced her steps across the sandy yard to her car. The air had cooled perceptibly and clouds were gathering on the horizon. “You might know,” she mumbled as she pulled out onto the street. “My first day in my new house and it looks like rain. It hardly ever rains in Southern California in July! Hope I’m not stuck with a leaky roof.”
The closest grocery store was a small market several miles away. Hope I don’t see anybody I know, she thought as she entered the store. She was wearing formfitting jeans and a white blouse tied at her waist, and her long blond hair looked unattended and flyaway in the rising breeze. Seeing that the store was nearly empty, she gave a little sigh of relief. Thank goodness, she wouldn’t be encountering any prospective dates in a place like this.
She bought just enough staples to tide her over for the next few days—two paper sacks filled with milk, butter, bread, eggs, oatmeal, ground beef, salad fixings and a healthy selection of fresh fruits and vegetables. She remembered Ruggs’s dog food and treats and even snuck in a bag of chips and munchies for herself, plus a six-pack of diet cola. At the checkout counter, she added a local newspaper, a nice way to keep in touch with the world, since she had decided not to bring a television set.
By the time she returned to the beach house, the clouds had swollen to a threatening black and the wind was rattling the shutters, as if demanding entrance. Balancing her two bags of groceries, Frannie got inside just as the wind banged the door shut behind her.
“Wow! Looks like we’re in for quite a storm.”
Ruggs gazed up at her and cocked his head in agreement. She gave him a treat, then put the groceries away. She hadn’t noticed before how old and small the refrigerator was. She hoped it worked. Why hadn’t she been more careful to check things when she’d had her walk-through?
A sudden pelting rain slammed against the roof and rattled the windows. She looked outside and groaned. It was a downpour. The thought occurred to her to go back home just for tonight to get out of this storm. She immediately dismissed the idea. How would it look for her to go hightailing it home her very first day?
She shivered and realized she had no idea how to heat the place. She scrutinized the fireplace. Sure, why not? This was her home now. If she wanted to have a little fire in her own fireplace, who was to stop her? She stooped down beside the hearth and moved the grate aside. To her surprise, it already held several charred logs. Now if she could just find the matches she had packed in one of the boxes.
By the time she located the matches, it was dark outside and the rain was coming down harder than ever. A bone-chilling dampness seeped through the walls, one of the disadvantages of living in a bungalow perched on the edge of the ocean.
Frannie bent over the fireplace and made sure the flue was open, then took the classified section from the paper, lit it and coaxed the flames until they ignited the blackened wood. After several minutes she had a roaring fire. Frannie stepped back and folded her arms in satisfaction. See, she was a smart, capable, independent woman. She could manage without her father’s help!
Feeling a hunger pang or two, she returned to the kitchen and browsed through her groceries. Time for dinner. Maybe she would fix a salad, some broccoli and a hamburger. Not a feast exactly, but certainly adequate.
As she broke open a head of lettuce, she smelled something burning. How could that be? She hadn’t turned on the gas range. A crackling noise broke into the distant drumming of the rainfall. Ruggs barked. Frannie spun around and gazed across the room, the lettuce dropping from her fingers. Heavy, black smoke was billowing out of the fireplace and filling the house.
Frannie ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker. If she could only smother the flames! But her awkward attempts were useless. The flames were too intense and the smoke too thick. Her eyes started smarting, her throat went dry and she began to cough. She couldn’t see. The acrid fumes were already stealing her breath. She dashed to the bedroom for her cell phone, then remembered that the battery was dead. She ran back to the living room and stared helplessly at the rolling smoke blanketing the room.
With her heart pounding in her throat, she grabbed Ruggs by the collar. “Come on, boy! Gotta find a phone and call the fire department!”
The moment she and Ruggs stepped out on the porch, she knew her trouble had only begun. The rain was coming down in a blinding deluge. There was no way she could drive.
“Dear God, help us!” She looked around, the rain streaming down her face and soaking her clothes. The world was a mass of liquid shadows and elusive shapes. Then, through the leaden gloom she saw a light flickering in the distance. It was the cottage down the beach. Someone was home!
“Come on, Ruggs!” Frannie broke into a run, her sneakers filling with water, her wet clothes sticking to her skin. She was drenched and out of breath by the time she reached the bungalow. She scaled the porch steps and pounded on the door until her palms ached. It seemed like an eternity before the latch clicked and the door creaked open.
Frannie caught a glimpse of a towering silhouette in the doorway, etched against the rosy glow of lamplight inside.
“I need a phone,” she blurted.
“Don’t have one.”
“Please! My house is on fire!”
The man stepped outside. He was tall and brawny, his face obscured by shadows. “Where?”
She pointed down the beach. “There! The next cabin!”
The man pushed past her and broke into a sprint. She nudged Ruggs and ran after him, her legs suddenly feeling like overcooked spaghetti. She slipped in a puddle and nearly went down. Somehow she caught herself and slogged on through the relentless torrents. She arrived at the beach house just as the man disappeared inside. She clambered onto the porch and pushed open the door. Smoke rolled over her.
Inside, the man’s deep, rasping voice bellowed, “Get out!”
She backed away, letting the door bang shut, and waited, holding Ruggs by the collar as the rain pelted them mercilessly. What if the stranger died trying to salvage her cabin? He could be asphyxiated by the fumes. How long did she dare wait before entering the house again?
Her questions were answered moments later, when the man burst out the door, his brawny chest heaving as he sucked for air. He was covered with soot, the stench of charred kindling so pungent on his body that Frannie turned her face away.
He took her arm and urged her away from the cabin. “Come on!”
She dug in her heels. “No—my house!”
“It’s okay. I smothered the fire. Nothing’s burning!”
“But I can’t just leave it.”
He stared down at her, impatience etched in his blackened face. “You can’t stay, lady. It’s toxic in there. We’ll air it out tomorrow.”
He took her hand and pulled her after him as if she were an obstreperous child. “Let’s go!”
She stumbled after him. “Where?”
“My place, unless you’ve got a better idea.”
She followed numbly, Ruggs galumphing after them through the downpour. By the time they reached the man’s bungalow, Frannie’s teeth were chattering. He opened the door and stepped aside. She hesitated only a moment as she recalled from childhood her mother’s repeated admonition Never go in the house of strangers. This time there seemed no other choice. Besides, she had Ruggs. He would protect her, unless the man made him stay outside.
She sighed with relief when he held the door for Ruggs, too. After Ruggs bounded inside and shook himself like an oversize mop, spraying water everywhere, the man came in and shut the door behind him. He broke into a spasm of coughing.
She looked at him with concern. “The fumes got to you.”
He wiped his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m okay.” He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and coughed into it.
Frannie politely looked away. Folding her arms to keep from shivering, she gazed around the cottage and realized how good it felt to be inside a nice, warm house. The furnishings were as spartan as those in her cabin—masculine pine furniture, worn overstuffed couch and chair, hurricane lamps, braided rugs and a red brick fireplace with a crackling fire. The cottage was nothing fancy, but at the moment it seemed immensely inviting.
The man touched her arm, and she jumped. “You’d better get out of those clothes, miss.”
She shrank back, her heart pounding. What if this stranger was a homicidal maniac? He was well over six feet tall and close to two hundred pounds. She’d be helpless to fight him off.
“I’m f-fine,” she stammered.
“No, you’re not. You’ll freeze in those wet clothes.”
She slipped over by the fire and held out her hands. “I’ll just warm up a minute and then be on my way.”
The man guffawed. “Really? You’ll be on your way…where?”
“Home.” They were both in this miserable predicament, and he was laughing at her! “I’ll dry off, then go back to my house. The smoke should be tolerable by then.”
Even with his face smudged with soot and his eyes tearing, the man managed a twinkle of amusement. “You’re not getting rid of that smoke until you open all the doors and windows and air the place out in the heat of day.”
Frannie’s ire rose. She didn’t want anyone telling her something that she wasn’t ready to accept—the fact that she was stuck in a strange house with a strange man for the duration of a bleak, rainy night. “I won’t be here long,” she insisted. “Once I’ve dried off, I’ll go get my car and drive to my father’s house.”
“You’d have to be a fool to drive in this deluge.”
“Well, I certainly can’t stay here all night.”
“Have it your way.” He pulled his wet T-shirt over his head.
Frannie gasped. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to go take a shower and see if I can scrub off some of this grime. And make the fire stop burning in my eyes.”
As he rolled his blackened shirt in a ball, Frannie couldn’t help noticing that he had the muscular build of a football player or weight lifter. He started down the hallway, then paused and looked back at her. “Listen, I’ve got some clothes you can change into, or a blanket—”
“No, I’m o-okay.”
“That’s why your teeth are chattering so hard you can’t talk?”
He was right. She was freezing inside and out. If she didn’t get out of these wet clothes, she’d catch her death of cold. “Maybe…maybe I will change.”
He grinned, showing white, even teeth in his smudged face. “Fine. I’ll lay some things out in the bedroom and you can change in there. There’s a lock on the door, if you’re worried. I’ll be in the bathroom showering.”
It sounded reasonable enough. Maybe the guy was harmless. She nodded. “I’d appreciate some warm clothes.”
He disappeared down the hall, then returned a minute later and led her to the bedroom. “My things are way too big for you. But I found a flannel shirt and some sweats with a drawstring, so they should stay up okay. If you’re still cold, you can wrap yourself in a blanket. Just take one off the bed.”
“Thank you.” She was still hugging herself, shivering. As soon as he stepped out of the room, she shut the door and bolted the lock. After removing her soggy sneakers, she quickly peeled off her soaked jeans and blouse and hung them over the metal bedpost. Her underwear was damp, but she wasn’t about to part with it. She pulled on the long-sleeve shirt and baggy sweats and pulled the strings until they were cinched around her narrow waist.
For the first time she glanced at herself in the bureau mirror and shuddered. Who was this straggly, ragamuffin waif looking back at her with smeared makeup and disheveled hair? She looked like something out of a fright movie. Oh, well, the last thing on her mind was impressing anybody, especially her churlish stranger.
Gingerly she unlocked the door and peered down the hall. No one in sight. She heard the shower running in the bathroom. And—was it possible?—a deep voice was crooning a country-western song. The nerve of that man, to be singing so nonchalantly when they were in such a dire predicament!
She pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders and tiptoed down the hall past the bathroom. When she heard the shower go off, she scurried on to the living room and curled up on the couch before the fireplace—a little bug in a rug, as her mom used to say.
The man’s voice sounded from the hallway. “You through in the bedroom, miss?”
“Yes, it’s all yours,” she called back, quelling a fresh spurt of anxiety. Now what? Was she actually going to spend an entire night in this house? Was she safe?
After a few minutes, the man came striding into the living room in a fresh T-shirt and jeans. He was toweling his dark, curly hair. His eyes were still tearing. But without all the soot and grime, he looked uncommonly handsome. His strong classic features were as finely chiseled as a Michelangelo sculpture—a perfectly straight nose, high forehead and sharply honed cheekbones, a wide jaw and a full, generous mouth. Arched brows shaded intense brown eyes and the stubble of a beard shadowed his chin.
Frannie realized she was staring.
He tossed his towel over a chair and eyed her suspiciously. “Is there a problem, lady?”
Frannie felt her face grow warm. “No, I’m sorry. I was concerned about your eyes. I hope the smoke didn’t hurt them.”
“They smart a little, but they’ll be okay.” He sat down in the overstuffed chair and raked his damp hair back from his forehead. “What I want to know is how you got all that smoke backed up in your house like that.”
Frannie tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “I just started a fire, that’s all. How did I know it was going to back up into the house?” She tossed him a defensive glance. “I checked the flue, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He sat forward and held his hands out to the lapping flames. “But did you check the chimney to make sure some bird hadn’t built a nest in it? Or the winds hadn’t stuffed it with debris? No telling how long it’s been since someone built a fire in that place.”
Frannie shook her head. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Next time, get yourself a chimney sweep before you go starting a fire.”
She bristled. “I will. First thing tomorrow. Or…whenever the rain stops.”
He coughed again, a dry, hacking sound that shook his hefty frame.
“You inhaled too much smoke. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
He laughed, and coughed again. “No way to see a doctor tonight. Maybe I’ll fix a little tea and lemon. Want some?”
She shivered in spite of the dry clothes and heavy blanket. “Yes, some hot tea would be wonderful.”
He stood and gazed down at her. “Listen, neighbor, if we’re going to spend the night together, there’s something you need to know.”
She gazed up at him with a start, her backbone tensing. The rain was still hammering the roof, its relentless rat-a-tat echoing the fierce pounding of her heart. “Something I should know? What’s that?”
He held out his hand. “My name. I’m Scott. Scott Winslow. What’s yours?”
She relaxed a little and allowed a flicker of a smile to cross her lips. “I—I’m Frannie. Frannie Rowlands.” She slipped her hand out of the blanket and allowed his large, rough hand to close around it.
He matched her smile. “Well, Frannie, it’s going to be a long night. We might as well make the best of it.”

Chapter Four
Frannie was on her guard again. She tightened her grip on the blanket wrapped around her, then glanced over at Ruggs curled contentedly beside the fireplace. If Scott Winslow tried anything suspicious, surely Ruggs would come to her defense. Wouldn’t he? Or would he just roll over and go to sleep and leave her to fend for herself?
“Sugar and cream?”
“What?”
“Your tea. Do you want it plain? With lemon? Or with sugar and cream?” A faint smile played on the man’s lips, but his eyes held a hint of something darker. Was it despair, nostalgia, remorse? “My mother was an Englishwoman. She always had a spot of cream in her tea.”
“Plain is fine for me. Just as long as it’s hot.”
While he fixed the tea, Frannie gazed around the room, assessing what sort of man she was keeping company with tonight. Please, dear Lord, don’t let him be an ax murderer! There wasn’t much to go on—a few books on a table, a radio on the counter. But no television, stereo or telephone. Nor were there any newspapers, magazines, knickknacks or family portraits in sight. And not even a calendar or a cheap print on the wall.
Who is this man? Frannie wondered. He’s anonymous. There’s nothing in this room that tells me who he is. Except perhaps his books.
She reached out from her blanket for the nearest book and turned it over in her hands. It looked like a library book, some sort of historical treatise. Did the man possess nothing of his own? As she put it back, she noticed an open Bible lying among the history books, philosophy tomes and suspense novels.
A man who reads the Bible can’t be all bad, she mused.
As Scott served the tea, she let the blanket fall away from her shoulders and accepted the steaming mug. With the tea warming her insides, her flannel shirt and sweats should be enough to keep her toasty. She put the mug to her lips and sipped gingerly, then nodded toward the stack of books. “You must like to read.”
He settled back in his overstuffed chair and took a swallow of the hot liquid. “Yes, I do. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”
“Mine, too. When I have time.”
He flashed an oblique smile. “I always have time.”
“You’re lucky. I’m always juggling a busy schedule.”
“And mine is wide open these days.”
She ventured another observation. “I see you have a Bible.”
He nodded. “It was my mother’s.”
“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…”
“It can be a challenge,” he agreed. “But I always have a few dollars in my pocket. Enough to get by.”
“Did you ever think of, um, you know, going out and—”
“Getting a real job?”
“Something like that.”
Scott’s voice took on an oddly menacing tone, as if he were lashing out at some invisible adversary. “The corporate world is filled with potholes and booby traps. I’ve seen men swallowed whole by the duplicity and hypocrisy. I’ve seen them sell their souls and the souls of their families for just a little more power and wealth. It’s a deadly, diabolic life. I want no part of it.”
There was only the sound of the thundering downpour until Frannie found her voice. “It doesn’t have to be that way, Mr. Winslow. I’ve known some very honorable businessmen. Men who are honest and generous and—”
He stood abruptly. “It’s late, Miss Rowlands.” He took a step toward her, his towering frame silhouetted against the firelight. “I imagine you’d like to get some sleep.”
A knot of apprehension tightened in Frannie’s chest as he loomed over her. “Sleep? I—I hadn’t thought about it.”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
She shrank back against the couch, her fingers clutching the blanket around her shoulders. What would she do if this strange, agitated man attacked her? Ruggs, asleep by the fire, couldn’t save her. And there wasn’t another living soul in shouting distance. She might be able to grab the poker, knock him out and run. But where would she go in this deluge? And surely with his strength, he could wrestle the poker from her grip and use it on her.
Her fear crescendoed as he held out his hand and said in a tone both forceful and compelling, “Come, Miss Rowlands. Don’t be afraid. You know where the bedroom is.”

Chapter Five
“I don’t need the bedroom, Mr. Winslow. I’m fine right here on the couch,” Frannie declared with all the boldness she could muster.
“Nonsense, Miss Rowlands. You’re my guest. You take the bedroom and I’ll take the couch. It’s the least I can do.”
“All right, if you insist.”
“I insist.”
Relief washed over her. Thank heavens, he meant her no harm. He was just offering her a place to sleep! Still wrapped in her blanket, she got up off the couch and headed for the bedroom. She recalled the lock on the door. It meant she could rest without fear.
But when Scott followed her down the hall into the bedroom, her anxieties sparked again. He went over to the bed and pulled off a blanket. Then, seeing the expression on her face, he held up his palm in a gesture of peace. “Don’t worry, I’m just getting myself a blanket.” He looked back at the bed. “I could change the sheets if you want to wait a minute.”
Frannie waved him off. “No, thanks, I’ll probably just curl up on top of the bed.”
“Well, make yourself at home. You’re the first company I’ve had here. It’s nothing fancy, but I think you should be comfortable. I’ll put clean towels in the bathroom. Feel free to shower if you like.”
Frannie took a backward step and shook her head. “I’m pretty tired. I’ll just get some shut-eye.”
“Fine. Mind if I take one of the pillows?”
“Of course. They’re yours.”
Scott grabbed a pillow and tucked it under his arm with the blanket. He stood beside the bed for a moment, gazing at Frannie. In the soft glow of the hurricane lamp, he looked ruggedly handsome. “So I guess we’re all set, Miss Rowlands. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes. Thank you. Good night.” As he started for the door, she said, “Wait! I forgot about Ruggs. I should bring him in here with me.”
Scott looked back at her and shrugged. “He’s fine sleeping by the fire. I doubt you’ll be able to rouse him anyway.”
“I know, but I just thought—”
Comprehension flickered in his eyes. “Oh, you think you’ll be safer with your dog in here with you. Is that it?”
“I—I didn’t say that.”
“But I can see it in your eyes. What do you think I’ll do, Miss Rowlands? Attack you in my own home? I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me.”
Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Mr. Winslow. But you must admit we find ourselves in a rather unusual situation.”
“Circumstances always look worse in the midst of a howling storm. Don’t worry. Things will look infinitely better in the morning. Good night again, Miss Rowlands.”
As soon as he was outside the door, Frannie scurried over and turned the lock. With a sigh of relief, she sat down on the bed and let the blanket fall from her shoulders. Mr. Scott Winslow would have to break down the door to get to her now. The bedsprings creaked as she moved. She wondered if he was standing outside the door listening. Waiting.
She got up and glanced at her reflection in the bureau mirror. She looked ghastly, her makeup blotchy, her long blond hair disheveled. The flannel shirt hung on her like an oversize nightshirt, and the sweats were baggy. If only she felt free to take a shower and wash her hair. But that was a luxury she couldn’t afford right now. Mr. Scott Winslow seemed like a nice enough guy, but one never knew. There was no sense in taking chances and putting herself in harm’s way.

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