That Summer Place by Susan Wiggs, Debbie Macomber, Jill Barnett - That Summer Place

tools back in the box, then washed his hands at the sink. He turned off the faucet and looked around for a hand towel.
    “Oh, here.” Catherine stood up and handed him a towel.
    While he dried his hands they both stood in the small area of the bathroom between the pedestal sink and the high old tub. They were so close he could almost taste her breath in the air between them.
    He looked at her.
    She was staring at his mouth. It was an invitation if he ever saw one.
    He started to lower his head.
    She drew in a breath and ducked suddenly, as if she had been in a stupor, then grabbed the bucket and held it between them like a shield. “I’ll just take this outside.”
    “Okay, that’s it.” He threw the towel down on the sink.
    She blinked up at him.
    “What the hell is going on in that head of yours?”
    She frowned. “My head? Me?”
    “Yes. You.”
    “Nothing’s going on.”
    He waited for her to say more.
    She didn’t. She just hugged the bucket to her chest and gave him that same stubborn look she’d had when he’d pulled her from the water. “May I get by, please?”
    He gave up and stepped aside.
    She was gone an instant later.
    He looked at the empty doorway in disbelief, then wondered if his instincts were off that much. All morning she had been giving him mixed signals.
    Hell, with Catherine his instincts had always been screwed up. Thirty years later and it was the same thing—an overpowering attraction and complete confusion.
    He ran a hand through his hair and sat down on the john. He stared at his grandfather’s battered old toolbox like he was waiting for it to explain to him the workings of the female mind.
    He shook his head.
    He was fifty years old and he still didn’t understand women.

Twelve
    C atherine was forty-seven years old and she still didn’t understand men.
    For a brief moment she wondered if she had imagined what had happened between them in the woods. If so, she had one heck of an imagination. Perhaps, if she didn’t get the Letni account, she should switch professions and try writing romance novels.
    Dana and Aly came around the corner of the house. They were arguing until they spotted Catherine.
    “Mom!” Dana came hobbling toward her dragging a rusty old bike with bent handle bars, a crooked seat, no tires and only one wheel. “Look at this!”
    It was awful. She frowned at it. “Must I?”
    “These are the only bikes in the basement.”
    “Are you sure?” She turned to Aly who hadn’t yet reached the age where she needed to always be on the offensive.
    Aly nodded. “That’s the best bike of the bunch. It has a wheel.”
    Catherine tried to sound cheery. “Then we’ll have to spend our time sailing instead.”
    Dana gave a bitter laugh. “In what?”
    “There’s a sailboat. I’m sure it’s in the boathouse.”
    “Oh.” Dana had that sassy look about her. “You mean that sailboat?” She waved a hand toward the beach.
    “What sailboat?”
    “That one. The one we pulled out while you were in the house.” Dana pointed to a lump of green, algae-covered sticks and black boards.
    If you really stretched your imagination—perhaps into another dimension—it could have once been a small boat.
    “Mom, you can’t make us stay here. It’s sooooo awful.” Dana was whining like she had when she was three.
    Aly didn’t look much happier. She was staring at the bicycle as if it were a broken doll.
    “Catherine?” Michael came around the other side of the house.
    Great, Catherine thought, rubbing her hands over her eyes for a moment. Just great.
    Michael held out his hand. “Here’s your problem.”
    No, she thought. My biggest problems—all three of them—are standing right in front of me. Then there were her inanimate problems—the broken bike and the sailboat from the River Styx.
    She stared at the silver mechanism in his hand. Another problem? Probably. Her eyes almost glazed over. “What is it?”
    “The sparking mechanism.”
    She nodded.