Montgomery’s Mutton to find that a recipe for it actually existed and that it sounded quite good. At last she set the old book down on the table between her and Brandon.
“See what I mean?” Brandon asked.
“Is this the sort of thing that happens to your mind if you stay here long enough?” Chelsea asked laughingly.
Brandon smiled. “I don’t know,” he answered. “But I can tell you two things, for sure.”
“And what are they?” Chelsea asked.
“Your grandmother was certainly someone I would have enjoyed knowing,” he said.
“And the other?” Chelsea asked.
“The MacArthuroni and Cheese sounds incredible,” he said.
While the quiet reigned once more, they sipped their wine as the waves lapped at the shore, and the sun continued its nightly vanishing act. Some stars started blinking through heaven’s increasingly dark canopy, and the night creatures began their nocturnal warblings. As far as Chelsea was concerned, the rest of the world no longer existed. Then she remembered Brandon’s earlier comment that day, when they had first come out here. He had cryptically mentioned thinking of someone and how it sometimes happened to him.
“Someone” and “sometimes,” Chelsea thought . Who is that person, I wonder? After considering it for a few more moments, she decided to leave it alone for now. Maybe later, she thought, after we know one another better. But there is something that I’m dying to know . . .
She turned and looked at him. “Forgive me if I’m being forward,” she asked. “But I presume that you’re not married, right?”
To Chelsea’s mild surprise, Brandon’s expression darkened a little. “That’s right,” he finally answered. “Never have been.”
Despite his slight melancholy, Chelsea decided to risk asking another question. “Anybody special in your life right now?” she inquired gently.
After shaking his head, Brandon took another sip of wine. “No,” he answered. As if unsure, he paused for a moment. “And what about you?” he asked. “Is there anybody special in your life?”
One corner of Chelsea’s mouth turned up into a little smile. Turnabout is fair play, she thought.
“No, there isn’t,” she answered. “So tell me,” she said, deciding that it was a good time to switch the subject, “how long have you owned your cottage?”
“For ten years now,” he answered. “I bought it from an old, lifelong bachelor who had become too ill to enjoy it anymore. He was a portraitist, I’m told. Because he was dying and had no heirs, he sold the cottage furnished. Most of the stuff was too beat-up to keep, but I did hold on to some of the nicer things. And from what the Fabiennes told me, your great-grandfather built this cottage way back in the thirties, right?”
Chelsea nodded. “He was a Syracuse newspaperman who died young,” she answered. “This was supposed to be his place to get away from everything, but he was a workaholic, and he never got up here much. Then the war started and as you can imagine, it was even more impossible for him to leave. As best I know, Brooke spent at least one of her wartime summers here alone.”
“I’m sure that I would have enjoyed knowing her,” Brandon said.
Chelsea nodded. “Everyone did,” she answered. “Soon after her husband, Bill, shipped out for England, Brooke gave birth to my mother, Lucy. But six months after Lucy’s birth, Brooke’s car was viciously struck by a drunk driver, pinning both her legs beneath the dashboard. Blessedly, Lucy was not with her. The other driver died immediately, and Brooke was condemned to live out the rest of her life in a wheelchair. Despite Brooke’s misfortune, not once did I ever hear her complain or rail against God for having done such a terrible thing to her. Instead, she decided to concentrate on what she could do, rather than what she could not.”
Pausing for a moment, Chelsea took another sip of wine and gathered her thoughts.
“As best I
“See what I mean?” Brandon asked.
“Is this the sort of thing that happens to your mind if you stay here long enough?” Chelsea asked laughingly.
Brandon smiled. “I don’t know,” he answered. “But I can tell you two things, for sure.”
“And what are they?” Chelsea asked.
“Your grandmother was certainly someone I would have enjoyed knowing,” he said.
“And the other?” Chelsea asked.
“The MacArthuroni and Cheese sounds incredible,” he said.
While the quiet reigned once more, they sipped their wine as the waves lapped at the shore, and the sun continued its nightly vanishing act. Some stars started blinking through heaven’s increasingly dark canopy, and the night creatures began their nocturnal warblings. As far as Chelsea was concerned, the rest of the world no longer existed. Then she remembered Brandon’s earlier comment that day, when they had first come out here. He had cryptically mentioned thinking of someone and how it sometimes happened to him.
“Someone” and “sometimes,” Chelsea thought . Who is that person, I wonder? After considering it for a few more moments, she decided to leave it alone for now. Maybe later, she thought, after we know one another better. But there is something that I’m dying to know . . .
She turned and looked at him. “Forgive me if I’m being forward,” she asked. “But I presume that you’re not married, right?”
To Chelsea’s mild surprise, Brandon’s expression darkened a little. “That’s right,” he finally answered. “Never have been.”
Despite his slight melancholy, Chelsea decided to risk asking another question. “Anybody special in your life right now?” she inquired gently.
After shaking his head, Brandon took another sip of wine. “No,” he answered. As if unsure, he paused for a moment. “And what about you?” he asked. “Is there anybody special in your life?”
One corner of Chelsea’s mouth turned up into a little smile. Turnabout is fair play, she thought.
“No, there isn’t,” she answered. “So tell me,” she said, deciding that it was a good time to switch the subject, “how long have you owned your cottage?”
“For ten years now,” he answered. “I bought it from an old, lifelong bachelor who had become too ill to enjoy it anymore. He was a portraitist, I’m told. Because he was dying and had no heirs, he sold the cottage furnished. Most of the stuff was too beat-up to keep, but I did hold on to some of the nicer things. And from what the Fabiennes told me, your great-grandfather built this cottage way back in the thirties, right?”
Chelsea nodded. “He was a Syracuse newspaperman who died young,” she answered. “This was supposed to be his place to get away from everything, but he was a workaholic, and he never got up here much. Then the war started and as you can imagine, it was even more impossible for him to leave. As best I know, Brooke spent at least one of her wartime summers here alone.”
“I’m sure that I would have enjoyed knowing her,” Brandon said.
Chelsea nodded. “Everyone did,” she answered. “Soon after her husband, Bill, shipped out for England, Brooke gave birth to my mother, Lucy. But six months after Lucy’s birth, Brooke’s car was viciously struck by a drunk driver, pinning both her legs beneath the dashboard. Blessedly, Lucy was not with her. The other driver died immediately, and Brooke was condemned to live out the rest of her life in a wheelchair. Despite Brooke’s misfortune, not once did I ever hear her complain or rail against God for having done such a terrible thing to her. Instead, she decided to concentrate on what she could do, rather than what she could not.”
Pausing for a moment, Chelsea took another sip of wine and gathered her thoughts.
“As best I
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