Blue Moon Bride

Roth turned away from Hannah’s door, muttering, “Prickly witch.”

He went down the stairs into the front lobby. At a loose end, he didn’t know what to do. Restless, he strode into the dining room and grabbed a mug off the sideboard where a coffee urn sat. He filled his cup with the strong, steaming brew and stood there thinking. How did he go about doing what he’d come here to do?

As a youth, he’d wanted to be a builder, a creator. His oil company came about as a fluke, his natural abilities setting him on a course so successful he lost sight of earlier, creative aspirations. His inner struggle ate at him, his disillusion with the conflict between his youthful dreams and what became the reality of his life.

Last night’s meeting in the garden with Hannah only made matters worse, with her reference to arm candy. Roth knew full well what arm candy was. Even closed down emotionally, in his bloodless way, since his divorce he’d enjoyed plenty of it. And before that, his wife, Janice, had been a striking woman, but never, ever in his mind “arm candy.”

He’d been the envy of any man who saw her on his arm, and he’d felt like the luckiest guy in the world. He’d loved her absolutely, blindly, as it turned out. After the tragedy of their infant son’s crib death, Roth suggested they try again for another child, but Janice refused. Roth could still feel the blow of her rejection, even all these years later.

The birth of their child, Colin, made her realize she didn’t like being pregnant, didn’t want her body “distorted” again. The worst shock of all was when she said the death of their baby was a blessing in disguise.

A blessing in disguise?

Every time he thought about her twisted intellectualizing that any child’s death could be a blessing, he felt sick. Suddenly unsteady, he grasped the sideboard for support. Janice was so nonchalant, so cold and analytical, while he grieved intensely. Her decision left him feeling not only grief of loss, but betrayed.

That was when he finally saw her for what she was, all appearance and no substance. At that moment he knew their marriage was over. He was the only one mourning, the only one who wanted a traditional home, with children. Disillusioned and embittered by Janice’s rejection and the fallibility of his own insights where personal relationships were concerned, he shut himself down, became obsessed with work, determined to feel nothing. Women to him became diversions, nothing more.

He heard sounds, rousing him from his morbid mental detour. He lifted his head, alert. What was that?

“Mona, don’t fret,” a voice said. “I won’t start requiring you to pay for your stays. Don’t be absurd.”

That was obviously Joan’s voice, growing nearer.

“But this letter,” Mona said.

“Oh, dear, where did you get that?”

“I needed a scrap to make a list of paints I want to order, and I found it in the trash.”

“That’s where it belongs.”

“But, it says you’re broke and you could lose the inn.” Mona sounded worried.

“My banker is an old worrywart.” Joan paused. “Besides, Mr. Johnson is a paying guest.”

Roth lifted his mug in a mock salute. “It’s Jerric, Roth Jerric,” he wisecracked, under his breath. “But feel free to call me Ross.”

“What about the other one? The girl?”

“Hannah? Oh, I sent her one of my coupons for a free, two-week stay.” After a second, she added bleakly, “I had such plans for her. She’s a lovely women and she has no job. I certainly wouldn’t ask her to pay. Just as I would never ask you.”

“But if the bank takes your inn—”

“Pish tosh! Think no more about it.”

He heard a dog yap.

“Hush, Missy Mis. Now, see what you made me do? Missy Mis hates it when I raise my voice. Let’s speak of more pleasant things.”

“Changing the subject won’t erase the problem, Joan.”

“It’s not a problem, Mona, merely a banker’s preoccupation with minutia.”

“This letter is not minutia. It’s serious. Perhaps you could sell some of the paintings I’ve given you over the years.”

“Mona, I love your work. They’re marvelous. Genius. But sadly, guests and locals fail to understand your gift as I do. Now don’t get moody. You know your muse can’t ascend when you’re moody.” Her sigh was audible. They were right around the corner. Roth didn’t want to embarrass his hostess by having her discover he had overheard about her financial trouble.

Quietly he carried his mug through the lobby into the parlor. His footfalls were muted by the Oriental rug as he crossed the room to take a seat on a fusty, rose-colored sofa. He focused on the placid lake outside the picture window, aware when the women came into the foyer. Without noticing him, they continued their hushed conversation down the center hallway toward the rear of the house.

He sat back, contemplating Joan’s money troubles. He felt a pang of sympathy for her. It must be terrible to be elderly and financially insecure. He’d seen and heard enough to know that Joan was a kindhearted philanthropist, but without the financial wherewithal to be so openhanded.

If her income rested solely on the meager amount she asked of her guests, she was no businesswoman. The place was far from palatial, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d quoted him double what she did, even for such drab accommodations. The lake access and view, alone, were worth twice what she charged.

He thought about this morning and his brush with Hannah Hudson’s nudity and found himself almost smiling. Bad boy, he told himself. You must not enjoy that memory—it was a terrible moment for her. Yet, it certainly made the accommodations—sharing a bathroom—far less aggravating. If he were to be totally honest, it made sharing her bathroom worth every half hour he would be barred from its entry.

He experienced an uncomfortable upsurge of lust and shifted in his seat. How had his thoughts skipped so radically from impoverished Joan Peterson to lovely, if explosive, Hannah Hudson? Enough of that. Besides, he had not come here for the sport of conquest, which was moot anyway, since Miss Hudson exhibited as much delight in discovering he was there as she might show a poisonous snake found coiled in her bed.

He forced his mind to the less inflammatory subject—Joan Peterson’s money troubles. He supposed it was none of his business, but the conversation between the two women nagged.

He thought of Joan as a nice, if eccentric woman, and though he tried to numb his emotions, especially soft ones like pity, empathy or love, he felt sorry for her. He even experienced an urge to help. He sensed she would be too proud to accept charity. She couldn’t even accept that she had financial trouble. So, how might he be of assistance?

He stood, lifted his mug from the doilied end table, ambled aimlessly into the lobby and out the front door onto the wide porch. After a few minutes, he found himself on the lakeside of the inn, strolling along a gravel path through towering walnut, oak and pecan trees on his way toward the shoreline. He recalled so well, as a child, times he had dashed, barefoot, to the water’s edge. On the run, he’d thrown himself into a racing dive, skimming the shallows to gain deeper water beyond the cove. Today Grand Lake teamed with speedboats, large and small, plus sailboats and little wave-runners, buzzing all over the lake like water-bound motorcycles. The cove wasn’t buoyed to warn boaters away. Swimmers venturing too far out onto the lake these days would be foolhardy.

Yet, with the buffering cove, a sense of privacy and sanctuary endured, just as it had in his boyhood. Around the bend, Roth knew where the water deepened enough for docks. His family never owned a motorboat, just a rowboat. So they had no use for a fancy dock. Wondering if anyone had put in a dock, he veered off the lawn into the woods, deciding to see for himself. He had a feeling no one had, or there would be a clearing through the heavy underbrush.

When he reached the spot and came out of the trees, he picked his way down a rocky slope toward the lake. The sunshine felt good; the air smelled fresh with the cool breeze coming off the water. He experienced a spark of exhilaration, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“What if…” He reached a rocky ledge and leaned against a huge old oak. He remembered this tree, and this ledge. As a youth he had dived into the deep water a thousand times from this very spot. He smiled at the recollection. After a time of quiet contemplation, his mind began to teem with hints, sketches of the potential for what might be a promising adventure. An adventure that would not only benefit him, but would put Joan Peterson’s financial troubles to rest for good and all.

His enthusiasm grew as his vision became more and more solid in his mind. This was exactly what he needed, the creative redemption of his soul. The very reason he came back to his childhood home.

He caught sight of a crane, its snowy wings spread wide as it circled above the calm, blue water. With a laugh, he shouted out, “Who says you can’t go home again?”

CHAPTER THREE

ROTH returned to the inn well into his mental blueprints. He knew this idea was right for him, because of the way it fell so readily into place. He would buy the inn and develop the lake property into a resort with a marina, dock rentals and a gated, lakeside community that included a high-rise condo. The lower floors with less grand views would provide midrange housing for families unable to afford the offered lakeshore lots. Upper floor plans would provide high-dollar dwellings for affluent couples not wanting the hassle of a yard, opting to pay a premium for lofty lake vistas.

Joan Peterson would never again have to worry about money. Though her home would have to be razed, he would provide her with a sleek, new condominium as part of the deal.

He found his hostess in the kitchen, tying on an apron, about to begin the preparations for their midday meal. He checked his watch. Only ten o’clock and already she had to begin the drudgery of meal preparation. Poor woman. How fortunate for her that his plan would put an end to the ceaseless grind of running the aging inn. She was getting too old to maintain the sort of pace it took to keep the place clean and put food on the table. He felt extremely benevolent about his plan. He hadn’t felt so at one with the universe in years. Joan Peterson had a wonderful surprise coming.

Thirty minutes later, Roth’s harmonious mood had darkened considerably.

“No, no, no, no!” Joan cried, though Roth had just explained, for the third time, how much his plans for her property benefited her. Miss Mischief, curled on an oval rag-rug in a corner, sat up and began to yap. Joan made a quelling motion toward the mutt, and it magically ceased its racket. “I will never sell my inn,” she said less piercingly, more to keep her dog quiet than a decline in her agitation. “It’s my home. How many times must I tell you, Mr. Johnson, I would never feel comfortable living in some highfalutin condominium.” She turned away and began to chop an onion, her gnarled hands amazingly adroit as she severed it on a wooden board so worn by years its center was a rough-hewn valley.

Roth was accustomed to Joan referring to him as Ross Johnson, and let it go. The important thing was to make her face facts. “Don’t you understand? If you lose the inn to the bank, it will go on the market. I could buy it then, at a bargain price. Why shouldn’t you benefit—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Her knife whacked the onion to bits. “The bank isn’t going to take my inn. Where did you get such an idea?”