204 Rosewood Lane - Debbie Macomber [49]
She parked in the back, climbed out and stopped to look over the dancing lights of Seattle twinkling on the other side of Puget Sound. His home must be close to the waterfront. A ferry, with lights blazing, glided across the water in the distance.
“I wondered if you’d come,” Jon said from somewhere in the darkness. He emerged from the shadows to welcome her.
“You didn’t leave me much choice.” She wasn’t happy about this and she wanted him to know it.
“No, I didn’t,” he agreed. “Come inside.”
“I…I can’t stay for dinner. I hope you didn’t go to any trouble.”
“I went to a tremendous amount of trouble. I’d like you to stay. Please.”
“But…” He left her no option but to follow him into the house.
The interior was only partially finished, she noticed. Pieces of furniture were positioned on bare floors. The walls were mostly framed in although unpainted. The kitchen had new appliances and white-tile countertops, but only a plywood sub-floor. A linen-covered table with candles sat in what must be the living room. The light was dim, coming entirely from a couple of small table lamps and what spilled through from the kitchen. Large picture windows revealed a staggering view of the Seattle skyline.
“Let me take your coat,” Jon said.
Maryellen wanted to resist, she really did. Instead she slipped the coat from her shoulders. Jon took it and walked over to a closet without doors and placed it on a hanger.
“Would you like to see my home?” he asked.
She nodded. “Who’s the builder?”
“Me,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m doing everything myself.”
She remembered Jon telling Teri he was a jack-of-all-trades. Now she realized how accurate that statement was. He led her through the house. The only room with a door was the bathroom. The master bedroom was upstairs and had a balcony facing the water.
“I sit out there in the summer with my morning coffee,” Jon told her.
Maryellen could imagine it—the peace and silence, the clear, fresh beauty of Puget Sound in early morning.
“I have five acres here,” he continued. “Before you wonder how could I afford this property, I should tell you the land belonged to my grandfather. He purchased it back in the 1950s for practically nothing. When he died he left it to me.” A timer rang in the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”
He helped her down the stairs, leading the way and clasping her hand in his own. Once back in the main part of the house, he escorted her to the table and pulled out a chair.
“Can I do anything?” she asked.
“No,” he assured her.
First he lit the candles. The he poured the wine, a spicy gewürztraminer. After that, he brought out a salad—lettuce with sliced fresh pear, shaves of Roquefort cheese and wonderful honey-coated roasted walnuts. The dressing was a delicate raspberry vinaigrette.
“Oh, my,” Maryellen whispered after one taste. “This is incredible.”
“It’s only the beginning,” Jon promised.
They had one glass of wine with the salad and another before the entrée of baked salmon with a dill sauce so creamy Maryellen closed her eyes to savor the first bite. Dessert was an apple-and-date torte.
Between courses, Jon filled her wineglass again, opening a second bottle, and when they’d finished dinner, Maryellen was warm and slightly dizzy. He brought her to a comfortable sofa. A classical CD—she recognized Vivaldi’s Four Seasons—played in the background.
“I’m going to need lots of coffee,” she told him.
“It’s already brewing.”
She could smell the rich aroma. Feeling flushed and utterly content, she leaned her head against the back of the sofa and looked out over the astonishing view. Lights twinkled like fireflies in the distance, and the dark water reflected a three-quarter moon. Jon had turned off the lights, so her own image wasn’t mirrored in the glass. There was nothing to interfere with the view.
He sat down next to her.