“James—there will be no quiz, Chlo.”
She ignored him. “Michael James McCade.” She repeated his full name several times in a low whisper.
“Okay, not that I think it will come up, but just out of curiosity, what’s yours?”
“Um…Chloe is my middle name, actually.”
His eyes darted to her, and then back to the road. “Seriously? Wow. Now I’m glad I asked. What’s your first name?”
“You can’t laugh.”
Michael pulled the car to a stop at the Camp Pendleton main gate and showed his military ID to the marine on guard. He waved them through with a salute. “I would never laugh…Ethel…Myrna…Harriett…whoever you are.”
“Scarlett.”
“As in, O’Hara?” His lips twitched once, before he tamed his feature into his stoic, I’m-a-badass-marine expression.
“Yes. Gone with the Wind was one of my mom’s favorite books.”
“Scarlett’s a nice name. Distinctive. Why don’t you go by Scarlett?”
She shrugged. “It didn’t suit me. Everyone pretty much called me Chloe from the get-go. Then, when I was twelve or thirteen, I read Gone with the Wind, and I was like, ‘Hey, Scarlett’s a complete bitch.’” She laughed, despite her lingering tension. “I vowed never to be a Scarlett, literally or figuratively. But now you know the awful truth. I hope you’re not ashamed to be engaged to a Scarlett woman.”
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
She giggled, but the humor subsided as Michael turned into the Del Mar Military Housing tract, and, a few seconds later, pulled to the curb in front of a sprawling gray, single-story Cape-Cod at the end of Dolphin Way, with a bluff’s top view of the Pacific. She inhaled an unsteady breath. So this was officers’ housing. Nice.
He came around and opened the car door for her. She held out the cobbler, expecting him to take it from her, but he leaned in and took her arm instead. The next thing she knew she was standing on the sidewalk beside him, clutching the cobbler pan. She stared down the front walk and whispered, “Michael James McCade” under her breath.
“C’mon, Scarlett,” he took the cobbler from her stiff fingers and then wrapped his hand around hers and navigated them down the front walkway to the door. Chloe had time for one more deep, stabilizing breath while he rang the bell, and then the door opened and a tall, slim, sixty-something man with pewter-gray hair and ice-chip blue eyes stood in the entryway. He wore his pressed, dark blue polo shirt and starched jeans with the bearing of a dress uniform.
His stern expression cracked into a smile, and he clapped Michael on the shoulder. “Right on time, Major. And you must be Chloe.” He engulfed her hand in his and gave her a firm, precise shake. “Pleased to meet you.” Although he spoke at a normal volume, his voice held a booming, authoritative note. This man was accustomed to giving orders.
“Nice to meet you too, Colonel.”
“Come on in.” He stepped aside to give them room, and Michael’s hand at the small of her back guided her over the threshold. “I’ve got the grill warming out back, but we’ll swing through the kitchen so I can introduce Loretta and get you two set up with drinks.”
“You have a beautiful home,” she commented as they passed the open living room and dining area.
“Thank you. That’s Loretta’s doing. No matter where I’m stationed, no matter how rustic the conditions—and, believe me, there have been some damn rustic ones—she always manages to make us comfortable.”
The interior was as meticulously clean and stylish as the outside. Items from across the globe brought an eclectic mix to the beachy furnishings, but the order and arrangement kept the place from looking like a hodgepodge. Chloe immediately pictured the mess she’d left at Michael’s…rejected outfits tossed on the bed, makeup littering the bathroom counter. She could never pull off a home like this. A certain amount of clutter and disarray just seemed to spring up around her.
Still, under the House Beautiful surface, there was a depressing familiarity. She recognized the telltale signs of a military household, even though the Hardings’ souvenirs from places like Japan, Germany, and the Middle East were more upscale than the tourist-level knickknacks her father had carted home from his various deployments. Growing up, it had seemed to her as if every memento marked an argument between her mom and dad—about his career. His priorities. Did these walls bear witness to the same painful memories?
The colonel led them down a hall decorated with family photographs, including a boys-to-men progression of school portraits featuring what had to be the colonel’s sons. In the kitchen, a petite, auburn-haired woman in a flattering, peach-colored shirtdress stood at a granite-topped island, putting the finishing touches on a vegetable tray. Chloe fiddled with the neckline of her dress, suddenly self-conscious of her bare shoulders.
The woman looked up as they came in. “Michael,” she said, smiling warmly. She dried her hands on a towel and then came around the island and gave him a hug. “So nice to see you again.”
“You too, Loretta. Thanks for having us.”
“Thanks for getting engaged and giving us an excuse to celebrate.” She turned to Chloe, “Hi, Chloe, I’m Loretta. I’m thrilled to meet you, and, can I just say, I love your dress?”
Chloe found the warm smile directed at her. She nodded and attempted her own breezy, “Thank you,” despite her stiff cheeks. Maybe she didn’t quite pull it off, because Michael gave her an odd look, and handed her the cobbler. She offered it to the older woman. “And thank you for hosting us this evening, Mrs. Harding.”
“Loretta, please.” She peeled the foil back and inhaled appreciatively. “Mmm. I asked Stan to tell you not to go to any trouble, but now I’m glad you did. Stan, will you get our guests something to drink—I’ll take a glass of the Cabernet you decanted—while I see to a couple more things?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He strode to a bar area at the other end of the kitchen. “We’ve got wine, beer, soft drinks. What can I get you, Michael? Chloe?”