* * *
It turned out to be smoked ham sandwiches served in a casual room on the back of the house. Mike referred to it as the solarium.
“Fancy name for a glassed-in porch,” Parker commented wryly.
“It was a porch,” Mike explained to Maris as he spooned potato salad onto her plate. “You can’t tell, now that it’s dark, but this room overlooks the beach. Parker decided to enclose it with sliding glass panels that give us the option of closing it completely or opening it up. Now he can write in here during any kind of weather.”
Maris had pretended not to notice the computer setup in one corner of the room, which was otherwise furnished with rattan pieces. Nods toward decoration were limited. A few throw pillows. One struggling potted plant that looked doomed to lose the struggle. That was all. It was a bachelor’s room. A writer’s retreat.
Stacked around the computer terminal, on the stone tile floor, in shelves, on every conceivable surface, were books. Reference books, literary novels and classics, mysteries, romances, science fiction, horror, westerns, autobiographies, biographies, poetry, childrens’ books, histories, self-help, and inspirational. Every kind of book imaginable, some in hardcover, some in paperback, some of which, she was pleased to see, bore the Matherly Press imprint on the spine. Gauging by the worn appearance of the books, his library wasn’t just for show. Parker Evans was well read.
“Whatever you call this room, I like it,” she told them. “It’s a wonderful place to read. And write.” She gave Parker a sly glance, which he chose not to see as he spread mustard onto his sandwich.
After serving them, Mike sat down across the table from her, confirming what she had guessed, that he was as much a friend and companion as he was a valet—the need for which was now sadly apparent. “You went to far too much trouble, Mike.”
“No trouble. We planned to have a late supper anyway, and I’m awfully glad to have a guest in the house. Parker isn’t always the best company. In fact, when he’s writing, he sometimes doesn’t speak for hours, and when he does, he can be a real grouch.”
Parker shot him a sour glance. “And you’re a perpetual pain in the ass.”
Maris laughed. Despite the swapped insults, the affection between them was obvious. “I’ve experienced Mr. Evans’s grouchiness firsthand, Mike, but I don’t take it personally. I’m used to it. I work with writers every day. A gloomy bunch, for the most part. I probably don’t catch the verbal abuse their agents do, but I get my share.”
Mike nodded sagely. “Artistic temperament.”
“Precisely. I’m not complaining. Based on my experience—and confirmed only yesterday by my father—bad temperament is often an indicator of good writing.”
She blotted her lips with her napkin and was shocked to realize that they were still tender. She’d checked her reflection in the framed mirror above the basin when Mike kindly directed her into the powder room shortly after she and Parker arrived. The only visible trace of the kiss was a slight abrasion above her upper lip. She’d applied powder to the whisker burn and then quickly switched off the light, afraid sh
e would see in her eyes even more telling evidence of the kiss, which she had resolved to deny—a resolve jeopardized by whisker burns and such.
She and the author had spoken little on the drive to his home. She had kept her eyes trained on the twin beams the Gator’s headlights cast onto the road. The darkness within the forest made it easier to ignore, although at one point she couldn’t resist taking one furtive glance into the trees.
“Oh!” she exclaimed.
“What?”
“Fireflies. There in the woods.”
“Lightning bugs,” he said. “Down here, we call them lightning bugs.”
“I haven’t seen any in years.”
“Insecticides.”
“Unfortunately. When I was little, I used to see them around our house in the country. I’d catch them and put them in a glass and keep it on my nightstand overnight.”
“I did that, too.”
She turned to him in surprise. “You did?”
“Yeah. The kids in my neighborhood used to hold contests to see who could catch the most.”
So he had been able to chase fireflies. He hadn’t always been confined to a wheelchair. Naturally she was curious about the nature of his disability, but she was too polite to ask.
He wasn’t the first person she had known who was similarly incapacitated. She had enormous respect for those individuals who had made the best of their misfortune. Some were the most optimistic, upbeat people she had ever had the pleasure of knowing. What they lacked in physical stamina and strength, they made up for with courage and spiritual fortitude.
Parker Evans seemed to have the raw power of physically challenged triathletes who competed in the Ironman competitions, men and women who achieved Herculean feats with the strength of their arms—and willpower—alone. Frequently they were athletes or otherwise active young people whose pursuits had been ended in one fateful second, victims of tragic accidents. She wondered what had happened to Parker to change his life so dramatically.
She glanced across the table at him now. He was picking at the bread crust on his plate but, as though feeling her eyes, raised his and caught her looking at him. He gave her a frank return stare.