Foolish Notions (8 page)

“I found three more,” she
said as she climbed the redwood stairs. She walked past James and
handed Marie the shells. “These are prettier than the last
bunch.”

“Darling, they’re just
beautiful.” After inspection, Marie put the shells in a pile
with the rest. “Now, we just have to figure out what we’re
going to do with them.”

Samantha dusted the sand off her hands
and looked over at James—after all, she couldn’t just
ignore him. “Good morning. We’re just about to eat. Would
you like to join us?” She looked toward Marie. “I’ll
see what I can scrounge up and we’ll eat out here. It’s
too nice of a morning to eat inside.”

Samantha moved toward the door, not
waiting for James to give her an answer. She didn’t really care
if he ate with them; she was just trying to be polite.

James excused himself and followed
Samantha to the door.

“Why is my mom outside?”

“Because she wants to be.”
She raked her feet over the twine mat as she slid the door open.

“She can’t do everything
she wants,” he pointed out.

Samantha stepped into the house and
turned. He was inches from her. Had his eyelashes always been that
long . . . the colors of his eyes that deep . . . she’d never
noticed him swallow before . . . Quickly, she moved into the kitchen.
“She woke up this morning and said she wanted to walk on the
beach and collect seashells. We compromised. I would collect the
shells if she sat on the deck and enjoyed the fresh air and
sunshine.” Pausing, she put her hands on her hips. “I
don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“Well, I do. It’s cold.”

She slipped her sunglasses off and
tossed them on the counter. “Cold? Are you joking?”

His voice was deep and weighty as he
stepped toward her. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

No, he didn’t. However, that
didn’t take away from the fact that what he was saying was
ludicrous. “I have two words for you: Southern California.”

“The doctor said she must stay in
perfect health. Even a slight cold could—”

“Who is the nurse here?”
Samantha paused as she fought for a little poise and self-control.
After their confrontation last night she had vowed to herself she
wouldn’t fight with him again. She was not only above that; she
was beyond it, too. “I know what a cold can do.”

“She starts her chemo—”

Her eyes narrowed; he was making it
very hard to maintain the restraint she dug deep for. “I know
when she starts her chemo.”

“If she gets sick—”

“I know what can happen if she
gets sick,” she bit out angrily.

“Then why is she outside?”
he demanded.

“For fresh air, sunshine, and a
change of scene. It appears you’ve kept her cooped up in the
house for the last week and a half.”

“I call it safe and healthy.”
His hand slapped the counter and his voice was a low growl. “Damn
it, Samantha, this is one area I will not back down on.”

The look on his face wrapped around her
heart like a vice, squeezing all anger from her. She didn’t
want him to back down. The protectiveness that he was showing was a
part of him. She understood how important this was to him. They were
dealing with his mom’s life, for God’s sake. If the shoe
was on her foot, she wouldn’t back down either, especially if
she thought her mom wasn’t getting the proper care. But that
wasn’t the case now. He was going to have to turn over some of
the control he held on to so tightly, so she could do her job. “I
understand.” She softened. “But you can’t fight me
every step of the way.”

“I don’t want to fight.”
His voice was weary and honest.

“Let me do my job, James. If you
have any questions about decisions that I’ve made then ask me
about them. But don’t doubt my capabilities as a nurse.”

“I want what’s best for
her.”

“And so do I.”

He shook his head regretfully. “I
know you do.”

“I’m the one with the
training. That is why you hired me, to monitor and maintain her
health. You need to let me do that.”

He pinched his eyes shut momentarily.

“If this is going to work you’re
going to have to let go and give me the responsibility for her
health. You’re also going to have to put a little faith in me.”
When he opened his eyes, she continued. “As a professional, I
say she’s well enough to go outside and enjoy the sun.”

“Okay.” He raised his hands
in defeat. “You’re right. If you say she’s fine,
then she’s fine.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

For a very long moment he just stared
at her.

“What? What is it?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”
He turned. “I need to go. I have an appointment.”

“What about breakfast?”

“I’ll grab something on the
way.”

“You always used to eat breakfast
with me . . .” The words faded as she realized what she was
saying.

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

“That’s not . . . I’m
sorry . . .” Samantha watched him as he turned swiftly away
from her. He went outside to say goodbye to his mom. Through the
window she watched him as he gave Marie a quick kiss on the cheek
before he reentered. He didn’t speak a word as he walked past
her. The click of the front door closing was the only thing left in
his wake.

When James arrived home that evening,
he found Samantha in the kitchen, sitting at the bar as she artfully
glued seashells onto a terracotta flowerpot. Soothing instrumental
music flowed through the house and the light scent of burning candles
filled the air. The sliding glass door was open, allowing the roar of
the ocean to mix with the relaxing ambiance. “Good evening.”

Samantha looked up from her project. “I
didn’t hear you come in.”

“Has my mom turned in already?”
James asked as he strolled into the kitchen, looking at two
flickering candles.

“Yes.” She turned her wrist
and looked at her watch. “About an hour ago.”

His head popped up. “That’s
a little early. Is she okay?”

“Yep.” She smiled gently.
“She was just a little tired, that’s all.” She
fiddled with a small shell while she scrutinized the clay pot from
several angles. “We had a busy day of getting things in order.”
She looked up. “But we are all organized. How was your day?”

“Good.” James worked off
his tie as he studied her creation.

“What is that?”

Samantha’s gaze slid away from
James to what she held in her hands. “What do you mean, what is
it?” She tried desperately to collect the long, stringy strains
of glue that were draped all over the pot, her hands, and the glue
gun. Once the majority of them were contained, she spoke. “Isn’t
it self-explanatory?”

He shook his head, enjoying her antics.
“Not really.”

“This is a one-of-a-kind,
hand-crafted flowerpot, with genuine seashells collected by,”
she gave him a brilliant smile, “yours truly.” She held
the pot in the air with pride.

He stared at the pot quietly for
several moments, before saying, “One of a kind, that’s
the truth.”

She squinted as she glared at him. “Are
you mocking my creation? It’s a work of art.”

“A work of art, that’s a
stretch.”

“Okay, craftiness isn’t one
of my finer talents. However, I think Marie will love it.”

“Yes, she will, and no it’s
not.” He seized a long strand of glue that had found its way
into her hair. He allowed his fingers to glide down the length,
enjoying the slight contact with her. After he rolled the string into
a ball, he flicked it into the trashcan and watched her for a moment.
Damn the wind for tousling her hair like that. Damn the sun for
giving her skin that magnificent glow. Damn the air for making her
smell sweet and heavenly. He took a step away from her. Waking up to
her presence in the house this morning had been hard, but being with
her right now was torture.

“I’ve been working on this
for almost an hour.”

“Really, that long?”

She lifted the pot, careful not to
damage any of the shells, and regarded it. “Do you know how
hard it is to glue onto a round surface?”

“I haven’t a clue,”
he said dryly.

She adjusted a few shells. “It’s
not that bad.”

“If you say so.” He picked
up the mail on the counter.

“You have to have an
imagination,” she explained. “Picture it with a beautiful
flowering plant of some sort in it. Glossy green leaves cascading
over the edge.”

“For some reason the vision just
isn’t coming to me.” He dropped the mail and moved around
her to the pantry. “I bet for twenty bucks you could go and buy
one of those so-called one-of-a-kind pots at the local florist’s
with a plant already in it.” Her expression, one of complete
exasperation, made him smile, so he carried on. “Hell, I think
they sell them down on the boardwalk for ten.”

“You’re mean, do you know
that?”

“No, I’m honest.”

“You’re cruel.” She
pulled the pot close, shielding it. “Besides, homemade is
always better.”

He tore open a bag of potato chips and
stuffed a handful into his mouth. “Not always,” he said,
watching her search through the pile of shells on the counter to fill
the remaining empty hole.

After trying several, she decided on a
small silver dollar that nestled nicely with the others. She coated
the backside with a huge glob of glue, and then pressed it to the
pot.

“Ouch.” The glue gun
dropped and landed on the ceramic tile with a loud tap; the legs of
the stool sputtered across the floor as she jumped up.

James dropped the bag of chips on the
counter and grabbed for her hand, which she was shaking wildly. “Let
me see it.”

She batted his hand away. “No,
don’t touch it, it hurts.”

“Samantha, we have to get the
glue off your hand or it will just keep burning.” He pulled her
by the arm toward the sink and put her hand under the cold water.
After a few minutes he looked at her. “Is it feeling any
better?”

She nodded. “Yes, a little.”

“Do you want to take it off or
should I?” James asked as he looked at the dab of clear glue on
her skin. Somehow he managed to integrate a smile into the question.

“I’m not touching it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And would you please quit looking so smug.”

“I don’t know what you’re
talking about.”

“Obviously, the thought of
torturing me appeals to you or you wouldn’t be looking so
amused right now.”

“Do I look amused?”

“Yes, you do,” she snapped.

He raised a brow and said absolutely
nothing as he stared at her lips.

“Ugh, you’re impossible.”

Carefully, James reached for her hand.
“If you’re not touching it, then I’ll do the
honors.”

Samantha pulled her hand close to her
and then took a step back. “No, you won’t.”

“Samantha, you can’t leave
it there.” He moved toward her. “Stop being a baby—you’re
a nurse, for crying out loud.”

“What does that have to do with
anything? I may be a nurse but that doesn’t mean I like pain.”

“Pain?” he scoffed. “You’ve
got to be kidding me. It’s a small dot of glue.” His eyes
drifted gently over her face. “I don’t remember you ever
being this much of a sissy.”

As she looked down at her hand, her
bottom lip protruded into a pout. “That isn’t small. It’s
at least the size of a penny.”

He frowned. “Maybe a small pea.”
He cornered her against the counter and refrigerator. “I have a
plan.”

She looked back up and stared at him.
“So do I.”

He disregarded her words with a shake
of his head.

“You haven’t even heard
what I’m going to say.”

“I don’t need to hear it to
know it’s not going to be a good plan.” When her eyes
turned threatening he blew out a long breath and said, “By all
means. Let’s hear your plan.”

“I think I should let it wear
off.”

“Really?” He watched her
with fascinated interest. “I take it you didn’t think
that plan all the way through.”

She didn’t say a word.

“Okay, now we can move on to plan
B, which should have been plan A in the first place.”
Carefully, he took her hand in his. “Don’t pull away. I
just want to look at it.” He turned her hand over. It was still
very red. The clear bead was thick and completely dry. “If I
were a nurse and I had a patient with this type of injury I would—”

“Not call her a sissy and a
baby,” she offered, her brows angled defiantly. “It’s
called good bedside manner.”

“I would handle the situation
very carefully. You see it’s not easy dealing with a patient
who has such a low pain tolerance.”

He looked heavenward as he thought. “I
believe that fast and quick would be the right procedure in this
case.” In one quick motion he ripped the glue off.

“Ouch.” She shot across the
room and glared at him. “You wouldn’t make a very good
nurse,” she said as she examined her hand, clearly sulking. “I
can’t believe you did that.”

He was about to suggest she say “thank
you,” but when he looked at her his words caught in his throat.
Every muscle in his body turned taut as need swept through him in a
burning wave of heat. Good Lord, she was breathtaking.

She was leaning against the wall that
separated the kitchen and the dining room, pouting as she inspected
her hand. The setting sun cast dark shadows over the entire room.
Samantha’s face was hidden in a shadow; however, a single bar
of golden light fell across her bare feet. Frayed white thread from
her faded jeans adorned her slender ankles. He hadn’t noticed
the worn denims before, because she had been sitting behind the
counter. They fit like a glove and that was what he liked about them.
They sat low on her hips and exposed just a touch of her belly. If
she hadn’t been in a shadow he would have been able to see the
slight depression of her navel. The dark outline revealed every round
curve on her painfully perfect body. God, she was beautiful. Her red
toes began to flick in a restless rhythm. He watched them shine in
the light before he looked up. “Do I make you nervous?”