One of the catering staff hurried out of a marquee, heading for Callie. Nick strode to intercept him. The least he could do was lighten a workload that she would deny needed lightening.
Ten
C allie surveyed the crowd of festival goers, almost ready to breathe a sigh of relief. The morning had opened with a line of people waiting at the gates, and had got steadily busier. The weather was being kind, a gentle breeze taking the edge off the oppressive heat. Still, nearly all the guests wore sun hats and made the most of the shade covers and marquees set up around the public areas. The headline jazz band had started up, and beneath the sultry strains of the saxophone came the sounds of laughter, conversation and the clink of glasses. So far, so good. To the casual observer, the day was running with effortless efficiency.
"Ms. Jamieson." Robert, a young vineyard worker, appeared in front of Callie, his breathing heavy.
She nodded for him to continue. What new crisis, imagined or real, needed to be dealt with? Efficiency was never effortless.
"There's a problem with the sculpture of the jazz trio. Something to do with the bass player."
Callie sighed and started walking between two rows of vines, heading for the gleaming stainless-steel assemblage of nuts and bolts and old machinery parts that comprised the strangely animated sculpture. She only had to hang in there for a few more hours. Then the guests would be gone, and the cleanup and moving crews could start. And then she could take a break.
Nick had found her an hour ago and suggested she take a break then. He didn't understand that she needed to be on hand to deal with issues just like this one. His eyes had told her he thought she was making excuses. He also didn't seem to understand that she needed to be busy-so she didn't think about him, that kiss, the way she wanted him to hold her. So yes, maybe it had been partly an excuse.
As she passed the end of a row, a hand snaked out and grasped her wrist, tugging her off balance and against a warm, hard body.
Callie recognized his scent and the solid feel of Nick behind her. Her back pressed into his broad chest. His fingers encircled her wrists. And for a second she stood there letting him support her, cradle her, letting his strength seep into her. She allowed herself the brief luxury, then tried to pull away. "I need to get to The Jazz Players."
He held firm to her wrists and she felt the movement of him shaking his head behind her. "There's nothing wrong with The Jazz Players." His deep voice was warm in her ear.
"Robert just told me there was a problem."
Nick's hands skimmed up her bare arms, his touch like the dance of a firefly. His hands rested on her shoulders and he turned her to face him, to put a little more distance between them. Not nearly enough for her comfort. "The only problem is you not taking a break all day long. You brushed me off when I suggested it earlier. Now I'm making it happen. I know the perfect spot."
She studied his face, the deep green of his eyes. She should argue, but some time alone with Nick-in the safety of daylight-tempted her powerfully. She nodded. She was leaving tomorrow, she would take what moments she could.
The handheld radio buzzed at her waist. She reached for it, but Nick was quicker, whisking it out of her reach and turning it off. "It's nothing that can't wait."
"But-"
He sighed and grasped her hand, his touch warm and sure. "There are plenty of people here to help out. They'll deal with whatever it is." He tugged her up a gentle slope, away from the jazz and the art and the crowds, to a secluded spot on a hill beneath a spreading oak tree. A picnic rug lay on the ground, a wicker basket resting in its center, a golden baguette poking temptingly out from beneath the lid.
"Sit."
He'd done this. For her? Callie lowered herself down gratefully.
"A glass of water? Or would you prefer something stronger? I've packed soda and orange juice."
Callie smiled. "Water, thanks." She watched his hands and the play of muscle in his forearms as he unscrewed the cap from a bottle of mineral water and poured the liquid into two elegant wineglasses. "You don't have to drink water just because I am." He didn't answer, just passed a glass to her and raised his own in a silent toast. Callie took a sip.
Nick started pulling food from the basket. "I've discovered that pregnant woman are exceedingly difficult to pack a picnic for. Apparently, you're supposed to be wary of cold meats, and soft cheeses and pâtés."
"Everything that makes for a good picnic." She tried not to let it show how touched she was that he'd taken the trouble to find out what she should and shouldn't eat. He was just being Nick. Whatever he did, he did well.
"Not everything." He sliced the baguette into chunks, and his heavy silver watch glinted in the sun as he produced an array of plastic tubs containing everything from butter and mayonnaise to cheddar cheese and artichoke hearts-and of course grapes, as well as pineapple and mangoes. She couldn't stop the strange softening within her.
"What about Melody?"
"Melody has other family looking out for her." Nick filled a plate with food. "It's you I'm concerned about. Now eat," he said, as he passed her the plate. Callie suddenly discovered she was not only tired but ravenous, and a picnic lunch seemed like the best idea in the world. Nick filled his own plate, and they ate to the distant strains of jazz drifting through the vines.
"How did you know this is exactly what I needed?" she asked a little later as she bit into a strawberry, the last thing on her plate.
Nick watched as, with her other hand, she brushed crumbs from her front. "It was fairly obvious."
Callie lay back on the blanket and watched the sky through the filter of the leaves above her. She closed her eyes, resting her hands on her stomach. Nick stretched out beside her.
The silence lengthened, and the awareness that he was watching her grew. She chanced a glance at him from beneath her lashes, saw his eyes fixed not on her face but on her abdomen. His gaze flicked upward and caught her scrutiny. She saw a movement, felt his touch as he picked her hand up and shifted it to rest on her ribs. His palm, broad and flat, settled over her stomach. Just that. No more. He held it there absolutely still. Her thoughts went to the child inside her, her first hello from her father. Ever since Rosa's pronouncement, she'd thought of the baby as a girl. A three-way connection, baby and both its parents.
It felt so very right.
She remembered how, back in her hotel room, Nick had also said the baby was a girl. "The other night, why did you say the baby was a girl?"
His fingers spanned wider across her abdomen. "Did I say that?"
"Yes. Just like Rosa did."
"Huh." The sound was noncommittal and vaguely disbelieving. "There's a fifty-fifty chance."
"You sounded certain."
His hand shifted, picked up hers and placed it back where his had rested. She missed the gentle weight of his touch.
"No. How could I be?" His fingers skimmed up and back down her arm, trailing warmth.
"Are you like Rosa? Do you know things?"
The hand stilled. "No."
"I've heard that in the financial markets they call you The Profit, but that it's a play on words. That you do seem to be unusually lucky."
"People like to call skill and hard work 'luck.' It makes them feel better. I've had my share of losses too. They forget about those when it suits them. And Rosa, she gets lucky sometimes, but she's wrong sometimes too. I wouldn't paint the nursery pink on her say-so."
"Melody thinks Rosa's right about her baby being a boy."
"Like I say, there's a fifty-fifty chance she is right. Melody's happy to buy into it."
Callie was silent for a while. "Do you remember the painting at my home? The one you said reminded you of Cathedral Cove?"
"Yes." There was hesitation in the way he drew out the word.
"I painted it there."
He paused a beat. "You did a good job. You have talent."