Love in Another Town (4 page)

 

J
AKE HEARD THE PHONE
ringing as he stepped out of the shower. He reached for a towel, partially dried himself and pulled on his terry-cloth robe.

Walking into the bedroom he heard Maggie Sorrell's voice saying goodbye. The answering machine clicked off; he depressed the button and played the message back.

Her voice filled the room. ‘Jake, this is Maggie Sorrell. I've just been hired to do a big job in Kent. A farm. It's a beautiful old place but it needs a lot of work. The grounds are superb. I was wondering if you would be interested in doing the electrical work? Interiors and exteriors. Please call me. I'm here at home.' She then repeated the number she'd given him last Saturday at the drama group meeting.

Jake sat down on the bed and played the message again. He loved her voice. It was light, musical, cultured. It suited her. He had met her three times now at meetings about
The Crucible,
and he realized that his attraction to her was powerful. He thought about her a lot. But he had no intention of doing anything about her. She'd never be interested in him.

He would like to do the electrical work, though. The major job he had been doing in Washington was just about completed, and he and his crew would finish in the next couple of days. With four men on the payroll he had to pull in as many jobs as possible to keep them busy. Two were married and had families to support, and he felt a great sense of responsibility.

He picked up the phone to call Maggie back, and then he dropped the receiver in the cradle. He did not want to seem too anxious. Then again, he always felt a bit nervous around her.

Returning to the bathroom, he combed his wet hair and finished his ablutions, then went to get dressed, pulled on blue jeans and a sweater.

Fifteen minutes later he sat down at the desk in the small room at the back of the house, which he used as an office. Pulling the phone towards him, he dialled Maggie's number.

She answered immediately. ‘Hello?'

‘It's Jake, Maggie.'

‘Hello, Jake, you got my message?'

‘Yes, I did. I was in the shower when you called.' He wondered why he'd told her that. Rushing on, he continued quickly, ‘The farm job sounds interesting. Where is it exactly?'

‘It's not too far from Kent, near Bull's Bridge Corner,
actually. It's a pretty property and the house has great charm.' 

‘Is it really a big job?'

‘I think so. To be honest with you, Jake, the entire farmhouse needs rewiring, and it needs remodelling and restoring. It hasn't been touched in thirty years, in my opinion anyway. The woman who's bought it, my client, wants air conditioning and central heating systems put in, all new appliances in the kitchen, and she wants to build a laundry. Then there are the grounds. The exterior lighting will be extensive. She wants to build a pool and patio, oh, and there's an old cottage to be remodelled for guests, as well as a caretaker's apartment over the cottage.' She laughed. ‘So I guess it is a huge job.'

‘It sounds like it to me, Maggie. What are we looking at? About six or seven months' work?'

‘Probably. Maybe a bit longer. Can you handle it?'

‘Yes, I'm pretty sure I can. And thanks for thinking of me.'

‘Samantha's always said you're the best, and yesterday I saw the work you've done in the Washington house, and on the grounds there. I was very impressed.'

‘Thanks. When can I see the farm? I'd like to, before I commit to it.' 

‘We could go over there later this week.' 

‘Okay.'

‘How does Friday sound? That's the fourteenth of April.'

‘Great. What time?'

‘Could you do it around eight?'

‘Sure thing. Whereabouts is it?'

‘It's hard for me to give you the right directions … it's up a lot of twisting roads. I think we should meet at my house, since you know where it is, and we can go from here. It's easier and it'll save time.'

‘I'll be there at eight sharp. And Maggie?'

‘Yes, Jake?'

‘Thanks for thinking of me.'

After hanging up, Jake wrote the appointment in the small pocket diary he carried around with him, and also put it in the agenda on the desk. Then he got up and left the house.

As he walked out to the pick-up truck it struck him that perhaps he hadn't been so foolish after all, getting involved with the drama group. It looked as if he was getting a job because of it. But he knew the real reason he had become involved with the theatre group. It was because of her, of course. He had done it because of Maggie Sorrell.

He sat at the steering wheel without moving for a few seconds, bracing himself. He was on his way to an appointment, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

Amy Cantrell stood in the centre of the living room of her apartment, looking around slowly, all of a sudden noticing the untidiness of the place. Dismay swamped her.

She had managed to talk Jake into coming over tonight, for the first time in months, and she knew he would be furious. He loathed mess and disorder. He was as neat as a pin himself, and had been as long as she had known him, which was forever. Her lack of organization and her untidiness had been a bone of contention between them. She never understood how
she could create chaos in a room within seconds. She never meant to, it just happened.

Shaking her head and frowning, she began quickly to pick up the newspapers and magazines scattered all over the coffee table and on the floor underneath. She put them on a chair, plumped up the cushions on the sofa, and took the newspapers out to the kitchen.

When she saw the dirty dishes in the sink she groaned. She had forgotten about them. Flinging down the papers angrily, she opened the dishwasher; it was stacked to the brim and had not been turned on. Everything was dirty. Trying to stack more items into it and moving quickly, she dropped a mug. It shattered.

The phone rang shrilly. She grabbed it. ‘Hello?' 

‘Amy, it's me. Has he arrived yet?' 

‘No, Mom, he's not coming until after eight.' 

‘Why so late, Amy?' 

‘I don't know. He works, Mom.' 

‘Tell him about the alimony. That you want alimony.'

‘Mom, I gotta go. Honestly I do. I'm trying to tidy up here. Jake hates mess.'

‘So what do you care? He left you.'

‘I gotta go, Mom. 'Bye.' She hung up before her mother could say another word.

Moving across the kitchen floor in the direction of the dishwasher, she crushed the shards of pottery from the broken mug under her feet. Amy looked down, bit her lip. She went to find the brush and dustpan; she was on the verge of tears.

For the next few minutes she attempted to bring order to the kitchen before going through into the
bedroom. The bed was unmade, as it usually was these days. The mere thought of making it overwhelmed her, and defeated by the domestic chores which needed doing, she scurried into the bathroom.

After washing her face and cleaning her teeth, she combed her pale blonde hair. It hung listlessly around her face.

Amy Cantrell sighed as she regarded herself in the mirror. She wondered how she could make herself look better, and reached for the Cover Girl foundation, patted some of it on her face and added powder. Once she had highlighted her cheekbones with the blush-on, she outlined her mouth with pale pink lipstick.

The image of herself in the mirror infuriated her. She didn't look any better than she had a few seconds ago. Tears flooded her eyes. She was a mess. The apartment was a mess. She had never known what to do about either.

Her friend Mandy had once offered to show her how to use cosmetics, but she had never taken her up on it. She wondered why. As for the state of the house, there was never any time, and the more she did to clean it up, the more chaotic it became. Reaching for a tissue, she blew her nose and wiped her eyes. It just wasn't fair. Other people seemed to get through life so easily, so flawlessly. All she could do was stumble along, dragging mess in her wake.

The doorbell rang, making her jump.

My God, was he here already! She hurried out into the little entrance foyer, realizing, as she went to open the door, that she was still wearing the cotton housecoat she had donned earlier when she had started the housework.

‘Who is it?' she asked through the door. 

‘It's Jake.'

Glancing down at her grubby housecoat, she made a face and then opened the door.

‘Hi, Amy,' he said, coming in.

‘Hi, Jake,' she echoed, closing the door, trailing after him lethargically.

‘How've you been? All right, I guess.'

‘I guess. And you?'

‘Busy. With the business.'

‘Oh.'

Jake glanced around and then sat down on one of the chairs.

Amy could not help but notice the distaste on his face. She winced inside. He had always been particular about the apartment, and his appearance. She glanced at him obliquely. He looked impeccable tonight. As he always had. Always did. He was wearing a beige turtleneck sweater and dark blue jeans with a navy blazer. His boots shone, his hair shone, so did his teeth and his face. He looked brand spanking new, like a freshly minted coin.

More conscious than ever that she looked awful, if not worse than awful, Amy simply sat down on the chair opposite and smiled at him.

Jake cleared his throat. ‘You said you had to see me. You were very insistent. What do you want to talk about, Amy?'

‘The divorce.'

‘We've discussed it so much we've worn the subject out,' he answered in an even tone. 

‘I just want to be sure you're sure, Jake.' 

‘I am, Amy. I'm sorry, but there's no going back.'

Her pale blue eyes filled. She blinked the tears away, pushed her hair out of her face. Trying to get a grip on her emotions, she took several deep breaths. ‘Well, I have been to see the lawyer. Finally. I'm sure you're pleased about that.'

‘When did you go?' he asked.

‘Yesterday.'

‘I see. I'm glad you did. We should get this over, Amy, so that we can settle everything.'

‘He asked me if we'd tried to solve our problems. I told him yes, but that it wasn't any good, that it wouldn't work. Are you really sure, Jake? Maybe we should try again.'

‘I can't, Amy. Honestly, honey, I can't. It's finished.'

The tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘Oh, Amy, please don't cry.'

‘I still love you, Jake.'

He said nothing.

‘All the years,' she said, staring hard at him. ‘We've known each other since we were twelve. It's a long, long time.'

‘I know. And maybe that's the problem. Perhaps we know each other too well. We've become like brother and sister. Listen to me, Amy, you've got to face up to the fact that our marriage is over, and it's been over for years and years.' He cleared his throat and finished gently, ‘You just never noticed.'

‘I don't know what I'm going to do without you,' she wept.

‘You're going to be fine. I know you are.' 

‘I don't think I am, Jake. Would you get me a glass of water, please? Do you want a beer?'

‘No, thanks. I'll get the water for you.' Jake
manoeuvred himself through the living room into the kitchen, and he could not help noticing how dirty the apartment was. He bent down, picked up the broken mug and put it on the counter top. His eyes fell on the dishwasher jammed with dirty dishes and the sink piled even higher, and he grimaced. Once he had found a relatively clean glass in the cupboard, he rinsed it, filled it with cold water and took it to her.

Amy thanked him, sat sipping it for a few moments, staring at him over the rim of the glass. She was trying to think of something to say to him, but no words would come, and her head was empty of thoughts. All she really wanted was for him to come back to her. Then she wouldn't feel so lonely.

Jake said, ‘I'll have to be going, Amy, I've work to do tonight.'

‘You're not dressed like you're going to work!' she exclaimed, giving him a furious look, suddenly filled with jealousy.

‘Paperwork, Amy, I've loads of it.'

‘Do you want me to come and help you?'

‘No, no,' he said hurriedly, standing up. ‘But thanks for the offer.' He began to edge his way to the hall.

Amy put the glass down and stood up. She followed him to the front door. ‘The lawyer says I'm entitled to alimony,' she announced.

‘That's no problem, Amy, and it never was. I always told you I would look after you.'

‘Then stay with me.'

‘I can't. What I meant was I'd look after you financially. Tell the lawyer to go ahead and talk to my lawyer. Serve me with papers, Amy. Let's get this over with.'

She did not answer him.

‘So long,' he said. ‘I'll talk to you soon.' When she chose not to answer him he simply closed the door behind him quietly and left. Poor Amy.

 

O
N FRIDAY MORNING
Jake set out for Maggie Sorrell's house in Kent.

He knew where it was. He had gone there with Samantha Matthews the previous week to have another meeting about the lighting for
The Crucible.
It was not too far from where he lived, on the other side of town, half way down Route 7.

As he pulled out of his yard and headed up Route 341 in the direction of the town centre in Kent, Jake thought what a glorious morning it was, the way you always hoped an April day would be. It was crisp and dry, with bright sunlight and a vivid blue sky filled with puffed white clouds, the kind of day that made him feel good to be alive. Opening the window of the pick-up, he took a few deep breaths of the pure clean air.

Jake was finally feeling better in spirits. After his meeting with Amy on Tuesday night, he had been depressed for almost two days. She always managed to drag him down, to drain the energy out of him with her negative personality and her total lack of direction and purpose.

Sometimes Jake wondered how Amy managed to keep her job in the store, where she had worked for a number of years; it baffled him. It was a bath speciality store, selling everything for the bathroom from towels to accessories. Seemingly the owner liked her enough to keep her on, despite the constant mistakes she made.

Jake glanced out of the pick-up's window, noted that the light was crystalline today. Perfect. He wished he had time to get out his paints this weekend, but he knew it was not possible. He had paperwork to finish; also, if he was lucky, and Maggie hired him, he would have to start analysing the electrical work required at the farm.

He had allowed himself half an hour to get to Maggie's house, but since there was no traffic he arrived there fifteen minutes early. He parked in the back yard and walked towards the kitchen door, noting how pristine and well-cared-for the traditional Connecticut colonial looked. The clapboard walls were painted white and all of the shutters were dark green.

Before he reached the kitchen door, Maggie opened it. She stood there on the step, smiling at him.

The minute he saw her his chest tightened and he felt himself grow hot. To cover his nervousness, his sudden confusion, he coughed several times, then murmured, ‘Good morning, I'm afraid I'm early.'

She stretched out her hand. He took it in his. She said, ‘Good morning, Jake. That's no problem – I've been up since dawn. Come on in and have a cup of coffee before we leave.' She smiled at him once more and extracted her hand.

He didn't want to let go of it, but he did. ‘Thanks, coffee would be good.' He followed her into the immaculate kitchen, stood there glancing around, feeling slightly awkward.

Maggie said, ‘Sit down, Jake. You take your coffee black, if I remember correctly, with one sugar.' One of her dark brows lifted questioningly.

‘That's right, thanks,' he answered, and took a seat at the old pine table at one end of the kitchen, noticing that it had been set for breakfast for two.

She moved past him, and he caught a faint whiff of shampoo in her thick, luxuriant hair, the scent of her perfume on her skin, something light and floral; he heard the gentle swish of her skirt against her boots, the tinkle of the gold bracelets she always seemed to wear on one of her slender wrists.

Maggie moved around the kitchen quickly, but with the gracefulness he had noticed before. She was tall and slender, full of life and energy; he could not take his eyes off her. Eventually he did so, realizing he was staring.

Jake looked away quickly, let his eyes roam around the kitchen. He was struck by its singular charm, as he had been last week. It was decorated to make a statement, but it was certainly not overdone. Everything was in the best of taste, from the white walls and cabinets and the terracotta tile floor, to the sparkle of copper.

Delicious smells were suddenly wafting on the air … freshly baked bread, cooked apples and the hint of cinnamon mingled with the smell of coffee. He inhaled, then sniffed.

Maggie, who had turned around at this moment, said, ‘I baked the bread earlier this morning and it's still warm. Would you like a slice? It's delicious, even though I say so myself.'

‘I would, thanks very much. Can I do anything to help?' He started to rise.

‘No, no, I can manage. The coffee's coming up, and then I'll bring the bread and honey.' As she spoke she glided across the kitchen floor, carrying the mugs of coffee, and a second later she was back again with the homemade bread, a honeycomb and a bowl of baked apples on a tray. She placed this in the centre of the table and sat down opposite him.

‘I love baked apples,' she confided. ‘Try one. They're great with a slice of warm bread and honey.'

‘I will,' he said, as tongue-tied as ever, then thought to say thank you to her.

Maggie sipped her coffee and regarded him surreptitiously. He had helped himself to a baked apple and was eating it with relish, then he took a slice of the warm bread, spread it with butter and honey, took a bite.

He said, a second later, ‘I haven't had homemade bread since I was a kid. It's nectar.'

‘I know what you mean,' she answered, laughing, glad he was enjoying the breakfast. She had prepared it especially for him. It had struck her the other day that he probably didn't have very many proper meals. She knew from Samantha that he was single and lived
alone in a charming white clapboard house on Route 341.

Maggie wondered if he had a girlfriend. Obviously he did. Looking the way
he
looked, and being as nice as he was, it was more than likely that women chased after him. She felt a little twinge of something, of what she was not sure. Envy? Jealousy? Or a bit of both? Of course he'd never be interested in her, so why daydream about him? Which is exactly what she had been doing since their first meeting. Actually, she couldn't get him out of her mind. The other night she had even had fantasies about making love with him, and now, as she remembered those images, she felt herself flushing.

Maggie stood up swiftly and hurried over to the counter, convinced that her face had turned scarlet. She was extremely conscious of Jake's presence in her kitchen. He seemed to fill it with his masculinity and strength. And his sexuality. She had not felt like this for years and years.

Pouring herself another cup of coffee, Maggie Sorrell cautioned herself to put Jake Cantrell out of her mind. At once. He was, after all, much younger than she. Beyond her reach in so many ways.

From the other side of the kitchen, Jake's eyes were riveted on her. She was half turned away from him, so he was seeing her partly in profile, and he was struck yet again by her unusual beauty. There was a great deal of strength there, and yet she was the most feminine woman he had ever met, and vulnerable. He wanted to protect and cherish her. And love her. He already did. He had fallen for her the first night they met.

And he wanted to make love to her. He had done this so many times in his mind he was beginning to think it had really happened. But of course it hadn't; he fervently wished it had. Jake wanted to make love to her right now, had a terrible urge to get up and walk across the floor, take her in his arms and kiss her passionately. And he wanted to tell her exactly how he felt about her, but he didn't dare. It took all of his self-constraint to remain seated.

Jake picked up his coffee cup and discovered, to his dismay, that his hand shook slightly. Whenever he was near her she had the most extraordinary effect on him. I want her in every possible way, he thought, yet I know I can't have her. Oh God, I don't know what to do. What to do about her.

Maggie turned around.

Taken by surprise, he gaped at her.

She exclaimed, ‘Are you all right, Jake?'

‘Yes. Why?'

‘You're looking a bit pale. And a bit odd.' 

‘I'm fine, thanks.'

‘Would you like another cup of coffee?'

He shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I'll finish this and then perhaps we'd better be on our way,' he answered, and was surprised his voice sounded so normal.

‘I'll just go and get my things,' she said. ‘I won't be a minute. Excuse me.'

Left alone he leaned back against the chair and exhaled. He wondered how he would be able to work with her on a continuing basis, and experienced a sudden surge of panic. For a split second he considered turning the job down if she offered it to him. Instantly he dismissed this idea. He needed another big job if
his business was to grow and flourish. Not only that, he needed to be with her on a daily basis, needed to be near her however painful that might prove to be.

Jake Cantrell knew deep within himself that his wild imaginings about Maggie Sorrell would never come to pass. They were from wholly different worlds. She had never shown the remotest interest in him since the day they first met, other than to offer him this chance to bid on the electrical job at the farm she was decorating. It was obvious to him that his work and his knowledge about lighting impressed her. That would have to suffice.

Jake drove them to the farm in his pick-up truck, following Maggie's directions once they had left the centre of Kent.

Because he was so drawn to her, so smitten, and therefore needed her to think well of him, he was reluctant to say a word. He was afraid he might say the wrong thing. And so he sped to their destination in total silence.

For her part, Maggie believed he was naturally shy, a little withdrawn. Days ago she had decided he was a troubled man, one who had been badly hurt; he needed to be handled with gentleness, in her opinion.

Because of her own painful experiences, Maggie empathized with him and felt that she understood him without really knowing him. After two years of struggling with her own pain, she had finally managed to regain her self-confidence, but she was only too well aware that emotional damage could take a long time to heal. After Mike's rejection of her, and the
break-up of their marriage, she had felt nothing for so long.

And so she began to talk to Jake quietly, discussing the play they were involved with and their designs for the scenery and lighting. She was able to draw him out a little; he became enthusiastic and articulate as he began to speak about the lighting techniques he was planning to use.

She listened attentively, making an occasional comment. But mostly she let him do the talking, recognizing that as he opened up to her he became more sure of himself. He was gaining confidence as he spoke fluently about his work.

In no time at all they were turning through white gates and heading up the driveway of Havers Hill, the farm Maggie had been hired to remodel, restore and decorate.

Jake parked near a big red barn and then walked around to help her get out of the pick-up. He gave her his hands and she took them. As she jumped down she lost her balance and stumbled against him. He caught her, held her in his arms for a brief moment, and she clung to him. They drew apart quickly, staring at each other self-consciously.

Maggie turned away, straightened her jacket to cover her sudden confusion, and then reached into the truck for her briefcase and handbag.

After she had moved away, Jake, swallowing hard, closed the door of the pick-up and swung around, glancing about him as he did.

The property was magnificent.

Well-kept green lawns sloped away from the drive,
rolled as far as the eye could see. Beyond were pastures, and even farther beyond mountains partially encircled the property. Nearby, an old stone wall bordered a smaller lawn where a gazebo sat in the shade of an ancient gnarled maple, and the wall itself made a fitting backdrop for an English-style border of perennials.

He shaded his eyes with his hand. In the distance he could see an apple orchard. ‘What a place!' he exclaimed. ‘It's beautiful. I'd like to own something like this one day.'

‘Then I'm sure you will,' she replied, smiling at him. ‘If you want something badly enough you can usually get it, if you work hard at it, of course.'

Gesturing to a series of buildings just ahead of them, she went on, ‘That's the caretaker's house over there, Jake, and the farmhouse is the bigger building to the right. Come on, I want to show you around.'

She began to walk rapidly towards the house, continuing, ‘I told the caretaker, Mrs Briggs, that we'd be coming over, so the front door's open.' She glanced over her shoulder at him as she spoke.

Jake caught up with her and they went into the house together, their shoulders brushing in the narrow entrance.

Even though the lights were on, the hallway was dark and Jake blinked, adjusting his eyes to the murkiness of the interior.

‘It's very old,' he said to Maggie, peering about, moving forward, looking inside several rooms that opened off the entrance hall.

‘Yes, it is. About 1740 or 1750, somewhere thereabouts,' she told him. ‘And it was furnished in Early
American style; most authentically, in fact. Most of the furniture's been sold though. My client only wanted to keep a few choice pieces.'

‘Think about it, Maggie, this house was built before the American Revolution. My God, what these walls could tell us if they could talk!'

Maggie laughed. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I've often thought that myself. About other places I mean, especially in England and France.'

‘Who owned the farm?' he asked, turning to her.

‘A Mrs Stead. It had been in the Stead family for several hundred years. The last Mrs Stead died about a year and a half ago. No, two years ago, to be exact. She was very old, ninety-five when she died. Her English granddaughter inherited the property, but since she's a married woman with children and lives in London, obviously her life is on the other side of the Atlantic. So she put the property, the farmhouse and its contents on the market two years ago. She thought she'd sell Havers Hill immediately, because it is such an idyllic place. But the asking price was in the millions and it's no longer the 1980s. So naturally she didn't have any takers. She finally had to drop the price.'