Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(66)
“This.”
Linnea opened her lips slightly and felt his lips, warm and trembling, gently graze hers. She lowered her lids and leaned in closer, hungry for his kiss. The moonlit world was dreamlike as he left a moist trail across her cheeks, her neck; then, at last, he returned to her lips and crushed her against him. She whimpered as she brought her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. She felt the heat spark into a raging fire that swept through her body, consuming her.
At the sound of her deep-throated moan, he pulled back to catch his breath. They rested their foreheads against each other, breathing hard, then both laughed lightly, knowing the other had felt the explosion too.
John leaned his head lower and said in her ear, “Want to come over to my studio?”
Linnea took another breath with a step back and looked up into his green eyes.
“Yes.”
THE MOON LIT their way home.
The garden’s iron gate squeaked when John opened it. Linnea cringed at the noise, feeling sure Emmi would hear it and come to a window. The last thing Linnea wanted was for her and John to become the hot gossip topic for the ladies. The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked through the moonlit garden. Flo’s roses filled the night with their heady scent.
He led her past the main house to the rear, where the period carriage house sat nestled among hydrangeas, their white mop-heads resembling smaller moons in the distance. It was a classic Victorian design with a gambrel roof and a railed upper porch. The ground level never housed a car because it was crammed with storage. A long flight of stairs led to the second-floor apartment that Flo had lovingly remodeled as her mother’s art studio. It was Miranda, however, who’d insisted on the flamboyant Moroccan double-door entry. When Emmi purchased the 1930s Victorian from Flo, she’d painted the houses turquoise and the gingerbread trim a pale coral. Looking at the colors, Flo had shaken her head and said, “Miranda would have loved it.”
“The house used to be white,” Linnea told John as they climbed the stairs. She couldn’t resist adding, “How do you feel about living in a turquoise and pink house?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “It’s sea blue and coral,” he replied, straight-faced. “Caribbean cool.”
“Ah,” she said in mock understanding. When they reached the door, Linnea marveled at the intricate trompe l’oeil tile pattern that Miranda had drawn around the doors.
John opened the door and she stepped into a single large room with a vaulted ceiling and large, multipaned windows. Moonlight poured in through them, blanketing the floor in silver. She had to blink when John turned on the electric lights, so harsh in contrast.
“I’ll get the wine,” said John.
While he went to the tiny galley kitchen across the room, Linnea slipped off her sandy sandals and looked around. It was surprisingly neat for a man’s apartment. She clasped her hands behind her back and strolled around, captivated by Miranda’s murals. Linnea had visited Flo and Emmi’s house for many years as she grew up, but she’d never been inside the apartment. After Miranda died, it had been used for more storage.
Cara had described Miranda as a charming eccentric, an artist with flamboyant strawberry-blond hair that was, in fact, alarmingly pink. She wore flowing clothing, long shawls, and dangling earrings. Everyone adored her. She’d taught Emmi and Cara art in the studio in the summers. The girls had sat behind easels with the big Moroccan double doors flung wide open, looking out at the sea. Miranda would encourage the girls to ignore the rules and paint whatever they felt in their souls. That was a far cry from the school art teachers of the time, who scolded them if their trees didn’t look like trees. Miranda was larger than life, and Cara had confessed that she better understood Flo’s penchant for plain pants and T-shirts.
Miranda’s other passion had been sea turtles, something Flo claimed was imprinted on their DNA. Turtles had bonded them with their neighbor, Lovie. So it was no surprise to see that Miranda had painted the walls of the studio in a glorious ocean theme. Nothing Disney-like here: the dolphins, loggerheads, pelicans, jellyfish, and shrimp were incredibly lifelike, swimming around the blue walls of the studio. Linnea thought it would be like living under the sea.
She ran her fingers over the old Victorian sofa covered in green velvet, worn and no doubt lumpy from years of use. Most of the furniture in the studio had been Miranda’s collection of mismatched favorites, and they weren’t all old-fashioned. The artist had a modern streak. Breuer cane chairs clustered around a painted farm table. And she’d bet money that was an original Mies van der Rohe chair. Her vintage antennae were twirling.
Linnea walked to the large desk that sat in front of a window overlooking the side yard. Peering through the window, she was intrigued to see that it provided an excellent view of the beach house—her bedroom, in particular.
John returned with the wine and handed her a glass. She took a sip and relished the cool, citrusy flavor of the sauvignon blanc.
“Thanks. It’s perfect.” She swirled the wine and said, “I can’t help but notice your view.”
John looked out the window, then back at her with a sardonic smile. He had the grace to laugh. “I sometimes just stare out the window. I mean, the beach house happens to be right there.”
“Uh-huh . . .” she said, not buying it.
He shrugged in a French manner. “I admit that—occasionally—I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of you.”