CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Moira~
He was a decent sailor. Too large and heavy to be really nimble in a sloop this small. But decent. Athletic and competent. And he clearly adored the wind in his hair and the spray on his face. As she did.
They were racing toward the sinking sun. Westward in fact. She was a bit uncomfortable with that. Sailing west was only a metaphor – the world was a sphere after all, you couldn’t fall off, no matter how far you sailed. But they said it was bad luck for a fairy to set a course for the sun. Of course, Quinn was handling the tiller, and maybe that made a difference.
He glanced across at her, signaled that he was about to turn the Sieglinda and that she should adjust her sail. Shouted something that the wind tossed away. The sailboat made a graceful arc and a dip, avoided a spur of rock and floated smoothly north toward a black and white pod of orcas.
She wasn’t afraid of orcas, not exactly. But they were called killer whales for a reason. Quinn’s face was alive. His head looked enormous backlit by the low rays of the sun. They turned the left side of his face to molten bronze. He winked at her and brought the Sieglinda parallel to the orcas.
A mother and her calf breached, black and white flashing boldly. They blew water into two sparkling fountains. The wind caught the droplets and drenched her and Quinn. She thought she heard a rumble of thunder, but it might have been Quinn laughing. The whales splashed back down, creating a wave that rocked the two-person sloop.
Quinn raised a hand in farewell. He adjusted his sail, caught the wind, and set course for Shoreside. They sailed into the Drake boathouse just as the big orange sun touched the horizon. The sky flushed pink and purple. And then there was the minor bustle of lowering the sails and tying up. Quinn closed and latched the big old-fashioned wooden doors, murmuring something she did not catch. Power hummed in the air. And suddenly they were alone in the dimness of the old boathouse.
“That was fun,” Quinn boomed. “Wasn’t it?” He held out a big hand to help her onto the dock.
“It was.” She looked down at her life preserver. Quinn had insisted they both wear one, although she could not see the necessity since they both could easily escape the roughest seas.
“It’s the law,” he had said.
She had been about to conjure one for herself when he produced a small one from a cupboard. It was as ungainly as she had feared. Cut for a flat-chested child, not a woman. But she had worn it. Now he was unfastening the buckles that held it on, as if his reason for having her wear it was so he could remove it.
Or maybe it was that his slightest touch stirred her senses. After all he was removing a distinctly ugly orange and black vest that added a serious layer of bulk to what was already a very round bosom. His face was intent and happy, but he wasn’t copping a feel. These lustful feelings were all her own. Why couldn’t she read him?
He pulled the life vest down her arms. “I’ll hang these to dry,” he said. “Otherwise they’ll get musty.”
“Shouldn’t you wash the salt off first?” She hoped she kept her voice as even as his.
He shook his head. The salt spray had turned his hair and beard into a black helmet and visor of curls. “We don’t bother. Gets them too wet, and they mildew in the constant humidity.”
He shrugged out of his own enormous preserver and hung it beside the one she had worn. The size difference looked like a warning. They were as mismatched as anyone on the Council could have told her.
“I need a shower, and a change of clothes,” he said holding out a big hand. “There are lots of bathrooms in the cottage. You are welcome to use one to freshen up.” He tugged her out the boathouse and onto the path to the main house.
They could share a shower. Or not. Probably better not. Being around him fried her brains. He was still just as much on the rebound now as he had been three hours ago. She pulled herself together. Her voice was still a squeak. “That would be nice.” She could produce clean, dry garments once she had bathed.
Shoreside Cottage was a sprawling maze of opulent rooms. Not precisely a city house transferred to the seashore, but still not her idea of casual. Quinn ignored the massive Victorian furniture and led her up a curving staircase of dark carved oak that rippled with scales. She admired the wide sweep of highly varnished oak that followed the bend of the stairs, and ended in a tall newel post carved with the head of a dragon. The tail was wound around the post at the top.
“Did you slide down the banister when you were a boy?” she asked.
He laughed. “Of course. Ed and Hugh and I were as naughty as any other dragonlings. But my father and his cousins had already polished them smooth.”
“Who are Ed and Hugh?”
“My cousins, Edmund and Hugh. I’m an only child, so my father’s brother’s sons are more like brothers than cousins. West Haven was our playground. Including this railing.” He patted it fondly. “Grandmother warned us that crashing into Harry would hurt, but we couldn’t resist.”
“Harry?”
“That’s our name for the guardian of the staircase.” His beard pointed to the dragon at the bottom of the stairs.
The landing was as wide as Willow Cottage. The polished floors as dark as the oak staircase. Quinn flicked on lights as they went, revealing richly patterned Persian carpets and carved wainscoting. The walls above were painted cream and rows of bare hooks revealed where the art in the vault should hang.
“Why aren’t you staying here?” she asked, impressed by the house, despite her own preference for modern lines.
“There’s nowhere to paint,” he said. “Plus it’s dark all the time. My great-grandmother was afraid the sun would fade the furniture and the carpets, so the roof has a deep overhang and there are porches all around the house. Besides, when the family gathers, this place is a zoo. Noisy and distracting.”
“Willow is pretty small.”
“The studio isn’t.” He stopped abruptly. Looked down at her from his great height. Even in a sodden sweater with the damp curling his beard and hair he looked wonderful. But this great giant was worried.
“I can’t promise you this lifestyle,” he warned her solemnly. “This goes with Drake Investments. Painting pictures doesn’t have anything like the potential of high finance.”
“It does seem a little grand for every day.” Promise her what? What did he mean?
“Wait until you see the guest bathroom.” He grinned and looked like Zeus tempting a maiden. Her heart beat faster.
The bathroom was a symphony of black and white. A Victorian symphony. Black and white marble mosaic floors. A huge white porcelain sink that was flanked by black glass towel bars. The towering commode had an overhead tank and a long brass chain with a wooden handle to pull. The deep bath was set on claw feet and was long enough for a dragon, let alone a fairy.
“I might drown,” she murmured.
He opened a cupboard and removed a stack of fluffy white towels. “Use the shower – it looks authentic, but it’s new. When the plumbing was upgraded, Dad kept the look, but made sure things actually met the building code.”
The showerhead was a circle as big as a basketball. She peered doubtfully around the black and white shower curtain at it. “It will probably blast me to the south pole.”
“Have no fear. It’s adjusted to be as gentle as a spring rain,” he told her. “Whereas, when I was a boy, it alternated between spitting hail and scalding droplets. We always advised guests to bathe, but they never did.”
“Ouch.”
“But you are a fairy,” he said. “You take good advice, don’t you?”
“Mostly.”
He backed out of the bathroom and shut the door on her surprise. She locked it behind him, suddenly nervous. What was he trying to tell her? Had he decided that they weren’t a good match? Or did he just mean to use the shower instead of risking the deep tub? She seemed to be overthinking things again. Another symptom of unfairylike nervousness.
She didn’t try to step over the high sides of the bathtub to take her shower. She transported herself. The rain shower was as warm and gentle as he had said. She could have freshened herself without the use of a bathroom, but conjuring took energy. Energy that you had to replace. No fairy tried to do everything with magic.
Clothes were a different matter. She transmuted her jeans and fisherman’s sweater into a soft purple sweater and gray slacks. Casual but warm and attractive. She added penny loafers and wool socks. The Pacific Ocean was never really warm. At the end of May it was still cold enough to chill even sensitives to the bone. Getting soaked by salt spray had left her cold.
A flick of the fingers restored her blonde hair to a sleek bob that curved under her jawline. Another flick, and her brows were no longer white arcs blending into her skin. And her eyelashes were dark brown frames for her eyes. Her flushed cheeks required no cosmetics. Nor did her lips. They were plump and red – as if Quinn’s kisses were not yesterday’s memory.
She went downstairs to the sitting room. It was no longer historically accurate, but it was still dark. There had probably once been heavy velvet draperies of some dark fabric to match the maroon and dark blue rugs. Now simpler ones of pale champagne silk hung from wooden rods.
Equally probably Quinn’s great-grandmother had stuffed the niches on either side of the enormous fireplace with knickknacks. And the room with tables and whatnots. Someone had discarded the heavy tablecloths and reupholstered the horsehair couch and chairs in unpatterned wheat-colored velvet that complemented and lightened their dark mahogany frames.
Two portraits of a stern man and sterner woman in early nineteenth century evening dress gazed out over the bare marble mantelpiece. They had not been stored in the vault – probably because the Drakes had reasoned that they had no value outside the family. They were wrong. American primitives that old and good would always sell on the black market.
The furniture might have been modernized with fresh fabric, yet even so, the room was oppressively formal. She perched on the most comfortable-looking of the sofas. Underneath the velvet, the stiff hard horsehair of the 1800s was like a board. At least, the hairs didn’t poke through, and she didn’t slide off. Although her feet dangled off the floor.
Quinn found her there. “What on earth are you doing in the parlor?” he asked.
“Is that what this is?”
“Indeed. No one comes in here much. We built a sitting room to be cozy in and leave this room to the great-great-grandparents.” He waved a hand at the portraits.
“Oh.”
Moira willingly followed him out to the kitchen and onto a converted section of veranda. That sitting room was about the size of a barn, but compared to the parlor it was cozy. Because it was originally part of the wrap-around porch, it had modern glass picture windows on the far wall.
Three big overstuffed brown leather couches surrounded a sleek gas fireplace in a wall made entirely of stone. Under the window, two leather recliners in a lighter shade of brown made a great place for two to talk or read. In one corner there was a big games table with eight chairs. In another there was a piano. There was no television. Although it was possible that one of the big sideboards had a hidden one.
Quinn flipped a switch and soft lighting came on. He went to one of the sideboards and opened a door. “Music?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Classical? Pop? Jazz? What’s your fancy?”
She loved jazz. “Winston Marsalis? Bill Evans?”
He beamed. “Two hearts that beat as one.” He pressed buttons. Autumn Leaves began to play from concealed speakers. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “We can probably manage hot chocolate and cookies or some form of alcohol, maybe a soda, but no one has been up yet this summer, so the fridge is pretty empty.”
“Hot chocolate sounds great. I’ll give you a hand.” The sound of Evans followed them out to the kitchen. It was surprisingly modern with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. “I thought you were going for authentic Victorian at Shoreside?” she remarked.
“Not in the kitchen.” Quinn opened a cupboard and pulled out a box. He filled an electric kettle at the sink. “People talk about the good old days, but whenever those were, they were not in the nineteenth century. The original kitchen of this house was in the basement and required a minimum of six people to run it. In addition to the rest of the staff necessary to keep things humming in the rest of the house.”
“Oh. Why so many?” she asked idly. She peered out the windows at the woods. Darkness had fallen, and frogs were calling.
“Because everything had to be done by hand. There were no labor-saving devices. No gas or electricity on West Haven. Every drop of water had to be pumped up. The wood stove had to be cleaned and polished every single day. If you had wanted a bath, someone – maybe two someones – would have had to pump water into a boiler, light it, and then pump it up two flights so you could fill your tub. Or carry it up.”
The kettle began to gurgle. Quinn ripped open two packages of mix and dumped them into mugs, added the water and stirred.
“Thank you. I guess an authentic Victorian kitchen would be a great deal of work.”
“Uh huh. Marshmallows?” He took a little bag from a cupboard.
“No thanks.”
He put them away. “You know, I forgot about the team of cooks my mom keeps in the freezer.”
“What?”
“The freezer is what we have instead of the three cooks my great-grandmother employed. There’s probably some casserole or the other for emergencies. Should I take a look?” Quinn asked.
Abruptly she was starving. An hour of sailing was a certain appetite stimulator. “Sure. If your folks won’t mind.”
Quinn opened the bottom freezer drawer and began to move plastic boxes and glass dishes around. He gave her a smile that made her toes curl. “Shepherd’s pie or meatloaf?”