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Chapter 5
What the heck should she wear? Ruth stood wrapped in a bath towel and stared into her closet. Knowing she’d have a hard time picking out an outfit, she’d rushed home from the hospital and taken the fastest shower of her life. Earlier in the day, while she ate lunch, she’d run through her entire wardrobe in her head. But now, just like then, she couldn’t decide on anything. It didn’t help that she had no idea where they were going. Warren’s cryptic answer the night before had not helped. If it was summer, she’d assume they were heading for a picnic on the beach. Warren loved the beach and the open ocean. With the thermometer reading eighteen degrees, it was safe to assume the beach was not their destination. His sailboat would be out, too. He had that stored in dry dock every winter. She doubted he considered Black P
oint Country Club special, so what did that leave? What other places in Newport did he visit that lent themselves to dinner? For the life of her, she didn’t know.
It took a few tries, but she settled on her favorite new floral skirt paired with the dark green cowel-neck sweater her mom bought her for Christmas. The outfit wasn’t as formal as the gown she’d worn last night, but it was dressy enough if they went to a restaurant. Or at least dressy enough for the restaurants she frequented. She didn’t want to think about some of the places Warren ate at. They probably didn’t even let you in the parking lot unless you wore an evening gown and a thousand dollars worth of diamonds.
Once satisfied with her appearance, Ruth switched on the radio. She had ten minutes to kill. Watching television made no sense. Besides, she didn’t care for any of the Sunday night shows this season. Helen’s stack of weekly magazines remained on the table, so as Rod Stewart’s voice filled the room, she thumbed through The Star Report, which she hadn’t finished reading.
Even though she expected Warren, she still jumped when she heard the doorbell ring. After taking a slow measured breath, Ruth stood and smoothed down her skirt. Then she forced herself to walk and not run for the door.
Just act like always. It’s only Warren. I’ve known him forever. She fed herself those lines right up until she pulled open the door. Her eyes went immediately to the bouquet of flowers he held in his gloved hands, and the monolog disappeared.
“Warren.” She took a step back so he could enter.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” He held out the flowers and gave her a smile that warmed her from head to toe.
For several seconds Ruth stood there and memorized the sight of him holding flowers for her. Then her brain kicked back on. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Tradition calls for roses on Valentine’s Day, but I remembered your favorite flowers are calla lilies. I thought you’d prefer them.” He closed the door behind him, shutting out the cold air.
“You were right. Do I have time to put these in water?”
“Take your time. There’s no rush.”
For the millionth time, she wondered what his plans were. “I forgot to give you your jacket last night.” Ruth felt his eyes on her back as she filled a vase with cold water.
“I realized that when I got home.”
She stuck the flowers in the vase. “Let me grab it, and we can leave.”
As they drove, Warren asked her about her day but otherwise gave no clues about their destination. Ruth tried to guess as they passed the many restaurants and hotels in Newport. When they got to the intersection of Memorial Boulevard and Bellevue Avenue, she gave up. Whatever his surprise, she’d have to wait and see.
She gazed at the opulent mansions on Bellevue as they passed them. Few were privately owned anymore, but at one time they’d been the summer getaways for America’s wealthiest families, each more breathtaking than the one next to it. Over the years she’d toured a few. A person couldn’t live in Newport and not visit at least one.
Warren slowed the car and stopped just long enough to punch in a security code. The wide wrought iron gates slid open, and he continued down the winding driveway. She never would’ve guessed he planned to take her here tonight.
“When you said it was someplace special to you, I should’ve guessed you meant Cliff House.”
He opened her car door and cold air sneaked inside, but she hardly noticed. “You’re not disappointed are you?”
How the heck could she be disappointed? “Just surprised. I’ve never been inside.” She took his outstretched hand, and they started up the stairs.
“Ruth, you’ve been here. I know you have.”
“You brought me here so we could go sailing. We never went inside.” One day a few years ago, she mentioned she’d never been sailing, so he’d taken her out on his sailboat. That was the closest she’d ever been to Cliff House.
As they approached the massive front door it opened and a forty-something-year-old man dressed in a black suit greeted them.
“Good evening, Mr. Sherbrooke.”
What a voice. She’d only heard such a flat monotone on television.
“Trevor, this is my guest, Ruth Taylor.”
Mr. Monotone turned his attention to her. “Miss Taylor, if you would please give me your coat, I will put it away for you.”
When in Rome. Ruth slipped off her jacket and handed it over.
