Page 1 of Courting Catherine
Prologue
Bar Harbor, Maine
June 12, 1912—
I saw him on the cliffs overlooking Frenchman Bay. He was tall and dark and young. Even from a distance, as I walked with little Ethan’s hand in mine, I could see the defiant set of his shoulders. He held the brush as though it were a saber, his palette like a shield. Indeed it seemed to me that he was dueling with his canvas rather than painting on it. So deep was his concentration, so fast and fierce the flicks of his wrist, one would have thought his life depended on what he created there.
Perhaps it did.
I thought it odd, even amusing. My image of artists had always been one of gentle souls who see things we mortals cannot, and suffer in their quest to create them for us.
Yet I knew, before he turned and looked at me, that I would not see a gentle face.
It seemed that he was the product of an artist himself. A rough sculptor who had shorn away at an oak slab, carving out a high brow, dark hooded eyes, a long straight nose and full sensual mouth. Even the sweep of his hair might have been hewn from some ebony wood.
How he stared at me! Even now I can feel the heat rise to my face and the dampness spring to my palms. The wind was in his hair, sweet and moist from the sea, and it ruffled the loose shirt he wore that was splattered and streaked from his paint. With the rocks and sky at his back, he looked very proud, very angry, as if he owned this jut of land—or the entire island—and I was the intruder.
He stood in silence for what seemed like forever, his eyes so intense, so fierce somehow that my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. Then little Ethan began to babble and tug at my hand. The angry glare in his eyes softened. He smiled. I know a heart does not stop at such moments. And yet...
I found myself stammering, apologizing for the intrusion, lifting Ethan into my arms before my bright and curious little boy could rush forward toward the rocks.
He said, “Wait.”
And taking up pad and pencil, began to sketch as I stood immobile and trembling for reasons I cannot fathom. Ethan stilled and smiled, somehow as mesmerized by the man as I. I could feel the sun on my back and the wind on my face, could smell the water and the wild roses.
“Your hair should be loose,” he said, and, putting the pencil aside, walked toward me. “I’ve painted sunsets that were less dramatic.” He reached out and touched Ethan’s bright red hair. “You share the color with your young brother.”
“My son.” Why was my voice so breathless? “He is my son. I’m Mrs. Fergus Calhoun,” I said while his eyes seemed to devour my face.
“Ah, The Towers.” He looked beyond me then to where the peaks and turrets of our summer home could be seen on the higher cliff above. “I’ve admired your house, Mrs. Calhoun.”
Before I could reply, Ethan was reaching out, laughing, and the man scooped him up. I could only stare as he stood with his back to the wind, holding my child, jiggling him easily on his hip.
“A fine boy.”
“And an energetic one. I thought to take him for a walk to give his nanny a bit of a rest. She has less trouble with my two other children combined than with young Ethan.”
“You have other children?”
“Yes, a girl, a year older than Ethan, and a baby, not quite one. We only arrived for the season yesterday. Do you live on the island?”
“For now. Will you pose for me, Mrs. Calhoun?”
I blushed. But beneath the embarrassment was a deep and dreamy pleasure. Still, I knew the impropriety and Fergus’s temper. So I refused, politely, I hoped. He did not persist, and I am ashamed to say that I felt a keen disappointment. When he gave Ethan back to me, his eyes were on mine—a deep slate gray that seemed to see more than my face. Perhaps more than anyone had seen before. He bid me good day, so I turned to walk with my child back to The Towers, my home, and my duties.
I knew as surely as if I had turned to look, that he watched me until I was hidden by the cliff. My heart thundered.
Chapter One
Bar Harbor
1991—
Trenton St. James III was in a foul mood. He was the kind of man who expected doors to open when he knocked, phones to be answered when he dialed. What he did not expect, and hated to tolerate, was having his car break down on a narrow two-lane road ten miles from his destination. At least the car phone had allowed him to track down the closest mechanic. He hadn’t been overly thrilled about riding into Bar Harbor in the cab of the tow truck while strident rock had bellowed from the speakers and his rescuer had sung along, off-key, in between bites of an enormous ham sandwich.
“Hank, you just call me Hank, ayah,” the driver had told him then took a long pull from a bottle of soda. “C.C.’ll fix you up all right and tight. Best damn mechanic in Maine, you ask anybody.”
Trent decided, under the circumstances, he’d have to take just-call-me-Hank’s word for it. To save time and trouble, he’d had the driver drop him off in the village with directions to the garage and a grimy business card Trent studied while holding it gingerly at the corners.
