A Bungalow For Two

Feeling a hunger pang or two, she returned to the kitchen and browsed through her groceries. Time for dinner. Maybe she would fix a salad, some broccoli and a hamburger. Not a feast exactly, but certainly adequate.

As she broke open a head of lettuce, she smelled something burning. How could that be? She hadn’t turned on the gas range. A crackling noise broke into the distant drumming of the rainfall. Ruggs barked. Frannie spun around and gazed across the room, the lettuce dropping from her fingers. Heavy, black smoke was billowing out of the fireplace and filling the house.

Frannie ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker. If she could only smother the flames! But her awkward attempts were useless. The flames were too intense and the smoke too thick. Her eyes started smarting, her throat went dry and she began to cough. She couldn’t see. The acrid fumes were already stealing her breath. She dashed to the bedroom for her cell phone, then remembered that the battery was dead. She ran back to the living room and stared helplessly at the rolling smoke blanketing the room.

With her heart pounding in her throat, she grabbed Ruggs by the collar. “Come on, boy! Gotta find a phone and call the fire department!”

The moment she and Ruggs stepped out on the porch, she knew her trouble had only begun. The rain was coming down in a blinding deluge. There was no way she could drive.

“Dear God, help us!” She looked around, the rain streaming down her face and soaking her clothes. The world was a mass of liquid shadows and elusive shapes. Then, through the leaden gloom she saw a light flickering in the distance. It was the cottage down the beach. Someone was home!

“Come on, Ruggs!” Frannie broke into a run, her sneakers filling with water, her wet clothes sticking to her skin. She was drenched and out of breath by the time she reached the bungalow. She scaled the porch steps and pounded on the door until her palms ached. It seemed like an eternity before the latch clicked and the door creaked open.

Frannie caught a glimpse of a towering silhouette in the doorway, etched against the rosy glow of lamplight inside.

“I need a phone,” she blurted.

“Don’t have one.”

“Please! My house is on fire!”

The man stepped outside. He was tall and brawny, his face obscured by shadows. “Where?”

She pointed down the beach. “There! The next cabin!”

The man pushed past her and broke into a sprint. She nudged Ruggs and ran after him, her legs suddenly feeling like overcooked spaghetti. She slipped in a puddle and nearly went down. Somehow she caught herself and slogged on through the relentless torrents. She arrived at the beach house just as the man disappeared inside. She clambered onto the porch and pushed open the door. Smoke rolled over her.

Inside, the man’s deep, rasping voice bellowed, “Get out!”

She backed away, letting the door bang shut, and waited, holding Ruggs by the collar as the rain pelted them mercilessly. What if the stranger died trying to salvage her cabin? He could be asphyxiated by the fumes. How long did she dare wait before entering the house again?

Her questions were answered moments later, when the man burst out the door, his brawny chest heaving as he sucked for air. He was covered with soot, the stench of charred kindling so pungent on his body that Frannie turned her face away.

He took her arm and urged her away from the cabin. “Come on!”

She dug in her heels. “No—my house!”

“It’s okay. I smothered the fire. Nothing’s burning!”

“But I can’t just leave it.”

He stared down at her, impatience etched in his blackened face. “You can’t stay, lady. It’s toxic in there. We’ll air it out tomorrow.”

He took her hand and pulled her after him as if she were an obstreperous child. “Let’s go!”

She stumbled after him. “Where?”

“My place, unless you’ve got a better idea.”

She followed numbly, Ruggs galumphing after them through the downpour. By the time they reached the man’s bungalow, Frannie’s teeth were chattering. He opened the door and stepped aside. She hesitated only a moment as she recalled from childhood her mother’s repeated admonition Never go in the house of strangers. This time there seemed no other choice. Besides, she had Ruggs. He would protect her, unless the man made him stay outside.

She sighed with relief when he held the door for Ruggs, too. After Ruggs bounded inside and shook himself like an oversize mop, spraying water everywhere, the man came in and shut the door behind him. He broke into a spasm of coughing.

She looked at him with concern. “The fumes got to you.”

He wiped his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m okay.” He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and coughed into it.

Frannie politely looked away. Folding her arms to keep from shivering, she gazed around the cottage and realized how good it felt to be inside a nice, warm house. The furnishings were as spartan as those in her cabin—masculine pine furniture, worn overstuffed couch and chair, hurricane lamps, braided rugs and a red brick fireplace with a crackling fire. The cottage was nothing fancy, but at the moment it seemed immensely inviting.

The man touched her arm, and she jumped. “You’d better get out of those clothes, miss.”

She shrank back, her heart pounding. What if this stranger was a homicidal maniac? He was well over six feet tall and close to two hundred pounds. She’d be helpless to fight him off.

“I’m f-fine,” she stammered.

“No, you’re not. You’ll freeze in those wet clothes.”

She slipped over by the fire and held out her hands. “I’ll just warm up a minute and then be on my way.”

The man guffawed. “Really? You’ll be on your way…where?”

“Home.” They were both in this miserable predicament, and he was laughing at her! “I’ll dry off, then go back to my house. The smoke should be tolerable by then.”

Even with his face smudged with soot and his eyes tearing, the man managed a twinkle of amusement. “You’re not getting rid of that smoke until you open all the doors and windows and air the place out in the heat of day.”

Frannie’s ire rose. She didn’t want anyone telling her something that she wasn’t ready to accept—the fact that she was stuck in a strange house with a strange man for the duration of a bleak, rainy night. “I won’t be here long,” she insisted. “Once I’ve dried off, I’ll go get my car and drive to my father’s house.”

“You’d have to be a fool to drive in this deluge.”

“Well, I certainly can’t stay here all night.”

“Have it your way.” He pulled his wet T-shirt over his head.

Frannie gasped. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to go take a shower and see if I can scrub off some of this grime. And make the fire stop burning in my eyes.”

As he rolled his blackened shirt in a ball, Frannie couldn’t help noticing that he had the muscular build of a football player or weight lifter. He started down the hallway, then paused and looked back at her. “Listen, I’ve got some clothes you can change into, or a blanket—”

“No, I’m o-okay.”

“That’s why your teeth are chattering so hard you can’t talk?”

He was right. She was freezing inside and out. If she didn’t get out of these wet clothes, she’d catch her death of cold. “Maybe…maybe I will change.”

He grinned, showing white, even teeth in his smudged face. “Fine. I’ll lay some things out in the bedroom and you can change in there. There’s a lock on the door, if you’re worried. I’ll be in the bathroom showering.”

It sounded reasonable enough. Maybe the guy was harmless. She nodded. “I’d appreciate some warm clothes.”

He disappeared down the hall, then returned a minute later and led her to the bedroom. “My things are way too big for you. But I found a flannel shirt and some sweats with a drawstring, so they should stay up okay. If you’re still cold, you can wrap yourself in a blanket. Just take one off the bed.”

“Thank you.” She was still hugging herself, shivering. As soon as he stepped out of the room, she shut the door and bolted the lock. After removing her soggy sneakers, she quickly peeled off her soaked jeans and blouse and hung them over the metal bedpost. Her underwear was damp, but she wasn’t about to part with it. She pulled on the long-sleeve shirt and baggy sweats and pulled the strings until they were cinched around her narrow waist.

For the first time she glanced at herself in the bureau mirror and shuddered. Who was this straggly, ragamuffin waif looking back at her with smeared makeup and disheveled hair? She looked like something out of a fright movie. Oh, well, the last thing on her mind was impressing anybody, especially her churlish stranger.

Gingerly she unlocked the door and peered down the hall. No one in sight. She heard the shower running in the bathroom. And—was it possible?—a deep voice was crooning a country-western song. The nerve of that man, to be singing so nonchalantly when they were in such a dire predicament!

She pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders and tiptoed down the hall past the bathroom. When she heard the shower go off, she scurried on to the living room and curled up on the couch before the fireplace—a little bug in a rug, as her mom used to say.

The man’s voice sounded from the hallway. “You through in the bedroom, miss?”

“Yes, it’s all yours,” she called back, quelling a fresh spurt of anxiety. Now what? Was she actually going to spend an entire night in this house? Was she safe?

After a few minutes, the man came striding into the living room in a fresh T-shirt and jeans. He was toweling his dark, curly hair. His eyes were still tearing. But without all the soot and grime, he looked uncommonly handsome. His strong classic features were as finely chiseled as a Michelangelo sculpture—a perfectly straight nose, high forehead and sharply honed cheekbones, a wide jaw and a full, generous mouth. Arched brows shaded intense brown eyes and the stubble of a beard shadowed his chin.

Frannie realized she was staring.

He tossed his towel over a chair and eyed her suspiciously. “Is there a problem, lady?”

Frannie felt her face grow warm. “No, I’m sorry. I was concerned about your eyes. I hope the smoke didn’t hurt them.”

“They smart a little, but they’ll be okay.” He sat down in the overstuffed chair and raked his damp hair back from his forehead. “What I want to know is how you got all that smoke backed up in your house like that.”

Frannie tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “I just started a fire, that’s all. How did I know it was going to back up into the house?” She tossed him a defensive glance. “I checked the flue, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He sat forward and held his hands out to the lapping flames. “But did you check the chimney to make sure some bird hadn’t built a nest in it? Or the winds hadn’t stuffed it with debris? No telling how long it’s been since someone built a fire in that place.”

Frannie shook her head. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Next time, get yourself a chimney sweep before you go starting a fire.”

She bristled. “I will. First thing tomorrow. Or…whenever the rain stops.”

He coughed again, a dry, hacking sound that shook his hefty frame.

“You inhaled too much smoke. Maybe you should see a doctor.”

He laughed, and coughed again. “No way to see a doctor tonight. Maybe I’ll fix a little tea and lemon. Want some?”

She shivered in spite of the dry clothes and heavy blanket. “Yes, some hot tea would be wonderful.”

He stood and gazed down at her. “Listen, neighbor, if we’re going to spend the night together, there’s something you need to know.”

She gazed up at him with a start, her backbone tensing. The rain was still hammering the roof, its relentless rat-a-tat echoing the fierce pounding of her heart. “Something I should know? What’s that?”

He held out his hand. “My name. I’m Scott. Scott Winslow. What’s yours?”

She relaxed a little and allowed a flicker of a smile to cross her lips. “I—I’m Frannie. Frannie Rowlands.” She slipped her hand out of the blanket and allowed his large, rough hand to close around it.

He matched her smile. “Well, Frannie, it’s going to be a long night. We might as well make the best of it.”

Chapter Four

Frannie was on her guard again. She tightened her grip on the blanket wrapped around her, then glanced over at Ruggs curled contentedly beside the fireplace. If Scott Winslow tried anything suspicious, surely Ruggs would come to her defense. Wouldn’t he? Or would he just roll over and go to sleep and leave her to fend for herself?

“Sugar and cream?”

“What?”

“Your tea. Do you want it plain? With lemon? Or with sugar and cream?” A faint smile played on the man’s lips, but his eyes held a hint of something darker. Was it despair, nostalgia, remorse? “My mother was an Englishwoman. She always had a spot of cream in her tea.”

“Plain is fine for me. Just as long as it’s hot.”

While he fixed the tea, Frannie gazed around the room, assessing what sort of man she was keeping company with tonight. Please, dear Lord, don’t let him be an ax murderer! There wasn’t much to go on—a few books on a table, a radio on the counter. But no television, stereo or telephone. Nor were there any newspapers, magazines, knickknacks or family portraits in sight. And not even a calendar or a cheap print on the wall.

Who is this man? Frannie wondered. He’s anonymous. There’s nothing in this room that tells me who he is. Except perhaps his books.

She reached out from her blanket for the nearest book and turned it over in her hands. It looked like a library book, some sort of historical treatise. Did the man possess nothing of his own? As she put it back, she noticed an open Bible lying among the history books, philosophy tomes and suspense novels.

A man who reads the Bible can’t be all bad, she mused.

As Scott served the tea, she let the blanket fall away from her shoulders and accepted the steaming mug. With the tea warming her insides, her flannel shirt and sweats should be enough to keep her toasty. She put the mug to her lips and sipped gingerly, then nodded toward the stack of books. “You must like to read.”

He settled back in his overstuffed chair and took a swallow of the hot liquid. “Yes, I do. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”

“Mine, too. When I have time.”

He flashed an oblique smile. “I always have time.”

“You’re lucky. I’m always juggling a busy schedule.”

“And mine is wide open these days.”

She ventured another observation. “I see you have a Bible.”

He nodded. “It was my mother’s.”

“Was?”

“Yes.” He paused, as if deliberating whether to go on. Finally he said in a low, abrupt voice, “She—she died.”

Frannie felt a jolt of emotions—sympathy, empathy, compassion and her own lingering pain. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s been a while.”

“How long?”

“Well over six months.”

Frannie turned the warm mug in her palms. “My mother died seven years ago, and I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

Scott looked away, but not before Frannie saw tears glistening in his eyes. His voice rumbled. “Seven years? Then it sounds like I’ve got a long way to go.”

Frannie searched for words. “Scott, I hope your mother’s Bible has been a comfort for you.”

“I’m trying to find in it what she found.”

“I’m sure she’d be pleased that you kept it.”

His eyes darkened. “It’s the least I could do.” He leaned forward and set his mug on the table, then folded his hands under his chin. His brows furrowed and the lines around his mouth deepened as he gazed at the flames. He was a young man, surely no more than thirty, but the heaviness in his expression made him look old beyond his years.

Frannie had the feeling he was debating whether or not to say more, perhaps even to open up to her about his feelings. She took the initiative. “Losing someone you love… There are no words for it. But it does help to talk about it, even when you don’t know what to say.”

His voice was noncommittal. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And sometimes talking to a stranger is easier than baring your soul to your loved ones.”

He nodded. “Ironic, but true.”

“When my mother died, I didn’t talk about my feelings for a long time. I was afraid my father and sisters would feel worse if they knew how much I was hurting.”

Scott gave her a probing, incisive glance. “Then how did you cope?”

She gazed at the flickering fire for several moments. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure what coping means. I just tried to make it through each day. I prayed a lot. Cried a lot. Ranted a little.” She held up the thumb-worn Bible. “And I looked for answers in this book.”

His lips tightened in a small, ironic smile. “So we have something in common. Two motherless orphans with a penchant for the Holy Scriptures. Extraordinary.”

“Not really. I’ve read the Bible all my life. You might say I was spoon-fed from the cradle.”

“How so?”

“My father’s a minister.”

He looked at her curiously, one brow arching. “Is that so? What’s it like?”

“Being a minister’s daughter?” She chuckled. “Don’t get me going on that subject.”

“Why not? The rain’s not letting up. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Frannie shivered and pulled the blanket back up around her shoulders. He was right. The uncertainty of her situation struck her afresh. She didn’t know the first thing about this man. She might have stepped heedlessly into her worst nightmare. She would have to endure an entire night to find out. She drummed her fingers on the mug. “I really need to let my father know where I am. He’s such a worrywart. He might even come looking for me.”

“He’d be crazy to go out in this weather.”

It was true. Her father wouldn’t be looking for her. He had no idea she even needed him. Frannie sipped her tea. It was lukewarm now. She glanced at her watch. She had been here for nearly two hours. She was cold and exhausted. All she wanted was to be back in her father’s house, in her own bed, safe and sound.

But there was something in the remote, melancholy face of the man sitting in the chair beside her that touched her and piqued her curiosity. Staring morosely into the fire, he looked like the loneliest man in the world. Or maybe that’s the way he wanted it… To be alone. He hadn’t anticipated that he would have to rescue a damsel in distress and take her back to his cottage for the night.

Frannie shifted uneasily on the couch. She drew her legs up under her and tucked the blanket around her knees. Rain still pelted the roof and windows like an invisible intruder, demanding admittance. She cleared her throat and waited to see if her moody companion would break the silence. The rosy glow from the flames danced on his stalwart features, but he remained tight-lipped, stony-faced.

Finally she spoke his name, startling him out of his reverie. “Mr. Winslow?”

He stared at her as if he had forgotten she was there. “Did you say something?”

“Just your name.”

“I’m sorry. My mind wandered. I guess I’m guilty of that a lot these days.”

“No problem. It took me a year after my mother died before I could concentrate on anything again. People talked to me and I never heard a word. I’d try to work and end up staring at a shapeless mound of clay all day.”

Bewilderment flickered in his eyes. “You stared at a mound of clay? I’ve heard of many ways to express grief, but that’s a new one on me.”

Frannie broke into laughter. Scott joined her with a polite, baffled chuckle, but she knew he had no idea what was so funny. She covered her mouth to stifle herself. “I’m sorry. There’s no way you could know. I’m a sculptor. The clay had nothing to do with grieving. It’s my job. What I do.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Now I get it. I’m impressed. I’ve never met a sculptor before.”

She smiled. “Most people look at me with suspicion or pity. They figure I’m in my second childhood or never got out of my first. They can’t imagine a grown woman mucking around in clay all day.”

“Good training for a muddy night like this.”

“I suppose so.”

“And you’re doing what you love best.”

She arched her brows, wide-eyed. “How do you know that?”

He grinned. “I see it in your face. Hear it in your voice. You’re obviously passionate about your work.”

“I didn’t realize it showed.”

“Like neon lights.”

She felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with the fire. “So what do you do?”

He didn’t answer for a full minute. She was about to repeat the question in case he had reverted back into his reverie. But finally he spoke. “What do I do? I walk. I run. I collect driftwood on the beach. I read. I think. Sometimes I even try to pray.”

“Sounds like a very peaceful life. But I meant, what kind of work do you do?”

“I just told you.”

She laughed lightly. “You know what I mean. I assume you have a job to go to. You’re too young to be retired. Oh, I know. You’re on vacation. Renting this cabin for the summer.”

He shook his head, his expression clouding, as if he were deliberately stepping back behind a veil. “This isn’t a summer cottage. It’s my permanent home.”

Frannie ran her fingertips over the scratchy blanket that enveloped her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound nosy. It’s none of my business what line of work you’re in.”

Scott got up and stoked the fire, then sat back down. “I’m not trying to be evasive, Miss Rowlands. The truth is, this is what I do. This is it. I live in this cottage. Sometimes I collect and sell firewood.”

Disappointment scissored through Frannie. She had imagined that her handsome rescuer might be a doctor, lawyer or business tycoon. Surely anything but a common beach bum.

“When I’m in the mood, I build furniture out of driftwood, but it’s not a profitable occupation. It takes me too long to create each piece, and no one’s willing to meet my price.”

“I know the feeling,” Frannie conceded. “Sculpting is like that at times. It’s feast or famine. When I have a commission I’m on easy street. When I don’t, I’m on a penny-pincher’s budget. It was never a problem when I lived at home, but now that I’m on my own…”

“It can be a challenge,” he agreed. “But I always have a few dollars in my pocket. Enough to get by.”

“Did you ever think of, um, you know, going out and—”

“Getting a real job?”

“Something like that.”

Scott’s voice took on an oddly menacing tone, as if he were lashing out at some invisible adversary. “The corporate world is filled with potholes and booby traps. I’ve seen men swallowed whole by the duplicity and hypocrisy. I’ve seen them sell their souls and the souls of their families for just a little more power and wealth. It’s a deadly, diabolic life. I want no part of it.”

There was only the sound of the thundering downpour until Frannie found her voice. “It doesn’t have to be that way, Mr. Winslow. I’ve known some very honorable businessmen. Men who are honest and generous and—”

He stood abruptly. “It’s late, Miss Rowlands.” He took a step toward her, his towering frame silhouetted against the firelight. “I imagine you’d like to get some sleep.”

A knot of apprehension tightened in Frannie’s chest as he loomed over her. “Sleep? I—I hadn’t thought about it.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

She shrank back against the couch, her fingers clutching the blanket around her shoulders. What would she do if this strange, agitated man attacked her? Ruggs, asleep by the fire, couldn’t save her. And there wasn’t another living soul in shouting distance. She might be able to grab the poker, knock him out and run. But where would she go in this deluge? And surely with his strength, he could wrestle the poker from her grip and use it on her.

Her fear crescendoed as he held out his hand and said in a tone both forceful and compelling, “Come, Miss Rowlands. Don’t be afraid. You know where the bedroom is.”