Chapter Seven
Gage put the strawberry back on the tray and looked at Chelsea. “Had?”
“Tricked. Bamboozled.”
“I know what the word means. I want to know what you mean.”
Setting the tray near the body oils on the long, slender table by the bed, Chelsea sighed. “You were right. This is a Callahan setup.”
He took the champagne from her, popping it open. The cork made barely a protest as it left the bottle. “If it is, I’m going to add on to my employer’s tab. What makes you think so?”
“There’s no meat in the fridge. Plenty of salads and fruit and tasty treats, but no meat. I’d say the guacamole was the ultimate giveaway.”
“Guacamole is really only good fresh,” Gage said. “I get why you’re a mystery writer.”
“It doesn’t take a detective to figure this one out. Smithers knew she’d be feeding a guest who didn’t eat meat. She prepared a great menu of what you could eat.”
Gage filled two flutes with champagne. “Why?”
“Because all the Callahans are born matchmakers. It runs in their blood. And like you said, they want everyone to share their misery.”
Gage looked at her. “It could be a coincidence. She could have had a customer who canceled. Besides which, Jonas is barking up the wrong tree, doll. The last thing I can handle right now is any kind of relationship. I’m not a relationship kind of guy, anyway. But the fact is, even if I were, my drama quotient’s too high to add a love angle right now. Probably ever.”
“Tell me about it.” Chelsea nodded. “I’m going to kill him.”
Gage tipped his glass against hers, the crystal clinking in the candlelit darkness. “I’ll help you. Here’s to killing Jonas.”
They sipped, studying each other over their glasses. Gage set his down on the table. “I’m more of a beer guy.”
“I’ll join you in a beer. Ellen does stock the libations well, I noticed.”
Gage followed her into the kitchenette, holding the flashlight so she could peruse the fridge. “You know, it could be a coincidence. Ellen might be the mischief maker here, looking to pad her monthly income. She strikes me as being a touch mercenary.”
“Don’t forget the fresh guac,” Chelsea said, “and the lack of even one chilled shrimp. What honeymooner do you know who doesn’t want a healthy helping of protein?”
“Not necessary.” He reached around her for the cheese. “Not all men need meat for boundless energy.”
“Why don’t you eat meat, anyway?” she asked, joining him at the small table with her own small ransacking of the fridge arranged on a plate.
“None of my family does.” Shrugging, he dug into the spreads and guacamole. “Never did. Dad had some disease, and my mom, considering herself a holistic type, believed that everyone could heal themselves with proper diet. As one tenet of Eastern medicine says, the four white deaths are white salt, white sugar, white flour and white fat. Mom added meat to the list. She had her own garden, even made her own pasta. It’s not as limiting as you think.”
“Did it help your dad?” Chelsea asked curiously, munching on the wheat cracker and cheese he offered.
“Dad’s disease wasn’t actually diet, it was financial. He loved money better than anything on the planet. And nothing can save a man from the lust for gold. Mom just didn’t want to accept that he loved money better than all of us put together.”
Chelsea looked at him. “So you’re going to be a really good father to Cat.”
“Yes, I am. As much as Leslie will let me. I suspect she’s got her own agenda. If I have to sue for custodial rights, I will. I’d prefer to work it out with her. This summer will be a trial run on how well Leslie and I can do joint parenting.”
Chelsea touched his hand. “Cat loves you.”
“She might one day. Right now she’s trying to figure out who I am.” Gage shrugged, his typical blow-off of life’s events that meant too much. “That’s my only mission right now, besides my job.”
“Are you going to take Cat to see your family? She mentioned she’d like to meet them.”
“No.” Gage dipped guac on a chip and gave it to Chelsea. “This is better than I would have believed Ellen the Amazon could fix. In fact, I find her a study in contrasts.”
Chelsea smiled at him, warming him. “Ellen is a sturdy lass, my mum would say. Anyway, I think Cat has plans to hound you about her aunt and uncles.”
“She can hound all she likes. I have very little to say to Xav and Kendall. I’d talk to Shaman if he was around, but my guess is he lets the military be his guide. Shaman’s a helluva free spirit, believes in Native American spiritualism, tosses in a little Catholic mysticism for balance, and says screw the family tree. I agree with him on all that.” Greg saw Chelsea’s eyebrows raise, and decided to elaborate. “Xav and Kendall inherited our father’s love of the almighty dollar, along with his penchant for making it. I stay clear.”
“Should that affect Cat, though?”
“Now, Miss Marple,” Gage said, not wanting to talk about his family anymore, “that’s enough digging for skeletons for one day. Even a mystery writer has to put away her pen and enjoy the moonlight.”
“Ugh, don’t mention mystery writing. I’m behind.”
“I hear. Cat says both of us have issues.”
Chelsea laughed. “I guess so.”
Lightning flashed through the windows, and thunder boomed over the cottage. “Well, if this was a Callahan setup, it could have been worse.”
“I guess so.”
Gage smiled. “You have a problem with the company?”
“Not exactly.” She looked at him. “In fact, not at all.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want you to avoid me like you do, say, snakes.”
Chelsea thumped his finger lightly. “Bad boy. You scared me out of my socks on purpose.”
“I believe, doll, I scared you out of your swimsuit.”
He saw a reluctant smile flash across her face. “So you did look,” she said.
“Hell, yeah,” he said. “I’m a red-blooded man. There’s not a living guy on this planet who wouldn’t have at least grabbed a fast peek at that set you’ve got.” He raised his beer. “Believe me, the memory is as burned into my mind as that nude in there with the artfully placed peacock feathers. But in my defense,” Gage continued, “once I realized you’d had a swimsuit malfunction, I heroically did not look again. And I’m hoping for points for that, minus one or two if I tell the truth and admit I would have gone for another bug-eyed ogle if you’d lost your bottoms, as well. Polka dots are great, but I have a thing for freckles. I think I deserve hero points.”
Chelsea slipped her hand into his, the same hand that she’d thumped a moment ago. “I’m wondering if maybe you’d like more than points.”
He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. “More?”
“Yeah. Something to go along with the memory.”
She would regret this later. It was the champagne and the lightning and the erotic wall art working her over. Gage made a last-ditch attempt to throw them both on a pyre of sanity. “My memory’s pretty good,” he said. “Beautiful breasts tend to stay with me.”
She slid into his lap and put his hand on one of the breasts he’d thought about a hundred times. Maybe a thousand.