Chapter 7
Ann’s wedding day dawned beautiful and clear, as if nature were playing a joke at her expense. She had purchased a lovely suit for the occasion, off-white with a fitted jacket embroidered at the cuffs and along the shawl collar with tiny seed pearls, worn with a silk camisole and a short, slim skirt. She donned the outfit on Friday with grim determination, vowing that she would not show up for the ceremony bedraggled and weeping; she would not give Heath the satisfaction. She piled her hair on top of her head, added her mother’s pearls to her ears and neck, and picked up her purse.
Heath might hate her but he would never be able to say she was a coward.
She had just walked down the front steps of the inn when his sleek Italian sports car glided to a stop at the curb. He got out and held the door for her, saying, “No luggage?”
“I only brought one bag from New York. I didn’t think I would be staying on Lime Island very long.”
“I’ll send somebody for it,” he said shortly. He was wearing a conservative suit that made him look more dashing than ever; the contrast between his businesslike clothes and his dark, almost piratical coloring was devastating.
Ann slipped into the bucket seat of the car and stared straight ahead, thinking that he seemed to have an army of minions with nothing to do but his bidding.
The ride to the registry office was short. They walked up the steps to the concrete building side-by-side in silence. Ann had expected nothing different; they had completed the blood tests and license application while barely exchanging a word.
Inside, the Jensens were sitting together on a bench. Joan held a large orchid corsage in a florist’s plastic box on her lap. They both rose when they saw Heath and Ann come through the door.
“Well, there she is!” Joe Jensen caroled, and enfolded Ann in a backbreaking bear hug. “Prettiest little girl I ever saw. I always tell Heath that.”
When he released Ann, Joan kissed her on the cheek and handed her the corsage. “We’re so happy to be part of your special day,” she said, beaming.
Ann looked at Heath, who turned away.
He had obviously not told the Jensens the details surrounding this happy event.
Ann stood patiently while the older woman pinned the corsage to the shoulder of her wedding suit and then patted the flower with satisfaction.
“There now. That’s just the touch you needed,” Joan said. “I knew Heath wouldn’t think of it.”
Mercifully, the door to the registry office opened and the clerk called their names.
The spare, paneled walls of the judge’s chamber did little to lift Ann’s spirits once they were inside. Someone had decided to get a jump on Christmas and had hung a huge green wreath decorated with holly berries and a fat, glittering silver bow over the registry desk. Ann stared at it as the justice put on his glasses and examined their documents, then began to read. As he droned on, Ann tuned out, and so she was surprised when Heath suddenly took her hand and slipped onto her finger a slim, etched gold band. She hardly had time to recover from the thought that he had selected it for her when she found herself accepting a thicker band from him and putting it on his finger. Her eyes met Heath’s and he held her gaze for a second, then looked back at the person marrying them. Ann felt her throat tighten as she heard the justice talk a little more and then say, “You may now kiss the bride.”
Heath turned to her and kissed her.
Ann hadn’t felt the touch of his lips in eleven years, but the memory was so strong it seemed like eleven minutes. Despite the circumstances she felt herself yearning toward him, and when he pulled back she felt such a sense of loss that she had to turn away to mask her expression. She blinked rapidly, sniffing, until the tears had vanished from her eyes.
Afterward, Ann remembered little of the ceremony’s conclusion. It had been such a far cry from the wedding she had dreamed of as a girl that she blocked it out, accepting the congratulations and warm wishes of the Jensens with a wooden smile. Heath must have said something appropriate to them because they melted away with cheerful waves and she found herself back in the car with him in a matter of minutes.
“What did you tell them?” Ann asked as he shifted gears and gunned the motor.
“I told them we had been apart so long that we wanted to get right on with the honeymoon.”
“Didn’t they think that was rather a sparse wedding for a multimillionaire?” she inquired.
“They know I value my privacy,” he replied shortly.
Ann let her head fall back against the leather headrest, wondering where they were going. Her life seemed to be out of her hands since she’d met Heath again.
Her question was answered as he turned down Prospect Boulevard and then pulled into the long, curving driveway of the house which had once belonged to Duncan Curtis. The landscaping was different, more elaborate than Ann’s memory of it. Curtis had never made the estate a showplace to be envied, but it was clear that Heath wanted Lime Island residents to know that its new owner was a man who had definitely “arrived.”
Heath used a remote control to open one of the triple garage doors and pulled the sleek car into the middle bay. The garage was antiseptically clean, a tier of shelves against one plaster wall containing antifreeze and motor oil the only color in the whitewashed environment. The bay to the right contained an RV; the one to the left, an elaborate Harley Heath could never have afforded in his Jensens’ Marina days. Ann was sure there were several boats anchored out back in the lagoon and maybe even a plane stashed somewhere.
“He who dies with the most toys wins,” Ann said softly, glancing around her.
Heath shot her a look as he turned off the motor. “What is that supposed to mean?” he said.
“Has all this shiny machinery made you happy, Heath?” Ann inquired.
“It hasn’t made me unhappy, which is more than I can say for you,” he replied.
“Still a Harley man, I see,” she said, deciding to ignore the riposte.
“Always,” he replied, and got out of the car, coming around to open the door for her before leading her into the house.
The garage entered into the kitchen, and Ann paused on the threshold, struck by the transformation the house had undergone since she had last seen it.
Heath had gutted the place, eliminated walls and raised the roof, introducing a Native American motif that carried through the newly enlarged, now airy rooms. She walked across the tiled floor, passing the gleaming appliances and double refrigerator, through the dining area, with its varicolored Seminole rug on the wall and carved oak chairs. She moved into the living room, where the modern furniture centered around another rug of Native American design spread on the pegged pine floor. She looked around in reverential silence for a few moments and then said, “This is gorgeous, Heath.”
He said nothing. The sincerity of her remark was obvious.
“But where are the people?” Ann added.
He looked at her.
“You’ve created an appropriate setting, but you’re alone here. This house looks like a museum.”
“I’m never here,” he said stiffly. “In the past I’ve stayed mostly at my town house in Miami.”
“Then why buy this place here? To prove to the townies that you could?” Ann asked.
“I do as I damn well please—I don’t have to justify myself to you,” he replied, not looking at her.
“Who takes care of this place?”
“I employ a couple who live in the guest house out back. I gave them the week off when I knew we were getting married.”
“Didn’t want any witnesses to the torture?” Ann said. “Afraid Amnesty International would come after you?”
He walked over to the liquor trolley by the bay window and poured himself two fingers of Scotch.
“You’ve changed, Princess. You never used to indulge in self-pity,” he said.
The telephone rang.
“Does anybody know we’re here?” Ann asked.
“I left word at my office that we would be stopping off at the house. You might want to check in the den to the left of the front hall—I had your boxes put in there when they arrived from New York. See if everything you need is there.”