ARRIVED at Summer House early, not wanting to give himself time to reconsider. He had hardly slept, staring at the hotel ceiling all night as he fought a twitchy, irrational urge to bolt, just to jump in the car and head north. Or south. Or anywhere. Anywhere else.
Maybe it came from those three years caged in an eight-by-eight cell, but the idea of being tied down made him crazy. Even a casual, short-term arrangement like this job for Natalie Granville left him short of breath, as if a noose had been looped around his neck.
He should have said no.
Freedom. Freedom was everything.
But it was also relative. If he didn’t work at Summer House, he still had to work somewhere. Down in Florida, his sister and her husband were waiting patiently, hoping he would accept their generous offer of a job managing one of their family restaurants. And back in New York City, his parole officer was waiting, too, less patiently. Matthew’s early release had been conditioned on his finding gainful employment outside the world of finance within the month.
Yes, it was Florida—with his sister’s smothering solicitude and his brother-in-law’s silent disapproval—or it was some quick, anonymous job like this one.
So he’d gotten up early, called his sister to tell her he was fine but that he was taking a summer job up here, to give himself time to think things over, time to clear his head.
And then he’d driven straight to Summer House.
But apparently he was too early. Natalie had left a note on the front door, in that same frilly calligraphy that had led him to her in the first place.
“Darn! I missed you!” the note said, and Matthew could almost hear her voice in the exclamation points. “Follow signs to pool house and settle in. Back absolutely ASAP.”
He followed the silly pink sticky notes, which were affixed every few feet to whatever was available—outstretched hands of statues, terra-cotta pots, tendrils of ivy. They led him toward the eastern side of the house, through the mildewed grotto— God, what a wreck!—and out toward the monstrous, dry hole in the ground that had once been the lavish swimming pool.
He paused there, peering in, noting its broken, cavernous walls and steeply sloping floor. An elaborate mosaic had been inlaid into the finish, but so many small pieces were missing that it looked like a half-done jigsaw puzzle, and Matthew couldn’t quite tell what the picture was.
Good grief, he thought, shaking his head. The place was even worse than he’d thought. He definitely should have said no. The best handyman in the world couldn’t help. Natalie Granville should just rent a bulldozer and start over.
The pool house was on the far side of the cracked deck and it was, predictably, just as run-down as the rest of the crazy old mansion.
His duffel bag held lightly in one hand, Matthew stood before the beautiful ruin. It reminded him, with its marble columns and formal pediments, of a small, abandoned temple.
Mold mottled the walls. Early-morning sunlight streamed through holes in the roof, spotlighting foot-high weeds that grew up in the cracked floor tiles. And two of the three white columns had curiously jagged missing chunks, as if a dragon had sampled them for lunch.
It was picturesque and broody and probably uncomfortable as hell. Oh yeah, he positively should have said no.
But Natalie’s final pink note fluttered on the front door.
Hurray! You found it! The words were followed by three more exclamation points and a smiley face. “Welcome home!”
He peeled the note off and held it in his hand, shaking his head in silent amazement. Where on earth did a woman like Natalie Granville, who should have been thoroughly oppressed by her dilemma, find so much enthusiasm?
And besides, Summer House wasn’t his home. He didn’t have a home.
“I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”
He turned toward the sound of the voice. It was Natalie, looking clean and sober and surprisingly professional in a pale blue linen suit. In fact, she looked so different from the disheveled, half-naked eccentric who had fallen into his arms that at first he hardly recognized her.
Nothing could change the fact that she was beautiful. But all these efforts to look “normal”—the young exec uniform, the safe pink lipstick, the curls scraped back and tamed into a tight ponytail—took away some of her quirky magic.
What a shame. He had kind of liked her drunk and disorderly.
But just then the balmy summer breeze kicked up, and a few of those soft, shining corkscrew curls lifted free. She wrinkled her nose and, with a sheepish smile, yanked the clip from her hair. Then she bent down, peeled off her high heels and flexed her bare foot with a relieved groan.
“God, I hate shoes. Don’t you?” She turned toward him and grimaced. Somehow she even managed to make a grimace look cheerful. And suddenly he realized that the magic was still there. It would take more than a linen suit to make Natalie Granville “normal.”
“Don’t let the mess out here scare you off,” she said. She dropped her purse and shoes on the broken flagstones and reached out to take his hand. “I didn’t get to the outside yet. But wait until you see inside. It has a few good points, I promise.”
Before he could protest, she pulled open the door and led him into the cool interior. She bustled around, apparently nervous, flicking at imaginary specks of dust, nudging picture frames a millimeter to the left or right, smoothing the fall of curtains around the picture window that looked out onto the spectacular mountain view.
The place was bigger than it appeared from the outside. It was bright and airy and smelled of fresh paint. Natalie had left all the curtains open wide, and all the lights on, too. For a moment Matthew wondered whether she guessed how much he valued sunshine these days.
“It’s not perfect, of course.” She smiled at him, wrinkling her nose again. “The pictures are hideous. The roof needs some attention, but rain’s not actually dripping in yet. And it has a fabulous, very modern Roman bathroom. Which is more than I can say for the main house.”
“It’s fine,” he said, meaning it. He didn’t give a damn about the pictures.
She looked around, obviously searching for a few good points to mention.
“Oh, yes! I forgot to explain about the bed.”
It did need explaining, he had to admit. A huge walnut four-poster, it dominated the central part of the room. It faced the picture window, and the sunlight exposed an elaborate jungle of birds and butterflies and snakes carved into every inch of exposed wood.
“I know it’s a little big for this place, but it’s a fantastic bed. Rumor is my great-great grandfather won it a hundred years ago in an arm-wrestling contest with the king of Tahiti.” She smoothed the soft white bedspread. “The king was only twelve at the time. Doesn’t really seem very fair of my grandfather, does it?”
Matthew smiled. “Or very smart of the king.”
She looked up. “That’s exactly what I’ve always thought,” she said happily, as if delighted to discover they shared a common outlook on something so important.
“Anyhow,
