Dream a Little Dream

by Melinda Curtis

  “I’m fine.” The initial throb of pain in her ankle was receding. There was a different throb lingering in her arm where he was touching her. Unlike Edith, she was noticing Rupert’s face, not his shoes.

  The compassionate smile. The deep blue of his eyes. The firmness of his skin. She could even smell a wisp of his aftershave.

  Her gaze dropped to his feet, and it was just as Edith said. His feet were encased in fine leather, a sign of a virile man who had no need for orthopedic shoes.

  She sighed.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Rupert took a few steps back, adjusting his grip on his black leather briefcase as he studied her.

  Oh my. Oh my. Oh my.

  In those few steps he’d taken, she’d taken note of his backside, and his gaze had dropped to her bazingas.

  Were they confident?

  She didn’t dare look down.

  This is not like me.

  That darn two-year twitch had been encouraged by Edith’s comments from the video blog.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Rupert’s smile was no less kind. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  What a smile! I should have had Mama sue somebody earlier.

  “Yes. I’m just woolgathering.” Choose your words, Bitsy! You sound like an old maid! “I mean, something Edith said just got caught in a loop in my head. I would love a cup of coffee.” Maybe some caffeine would put her on her toes. And perhaps time spent with Rupert would quell his triggering of the twitch. Extended exposure to him in the past had always resulted in the confirmation of his almost loathsome character.

  Loathsome seemed harsh. Perhaps haughty was a better word. Regal. Yes, that was even better. That was…

  Bitsy wanted to thunk herself on the head. She was talking herself down from the Rupert-is-inappropriate ledge.

  They walked toward the Olde Time Bakery, which made decadent pastries, rich lattes, and cups of flavorful French roast.

  “Are you coming from court?” Bitsy asked. “How did Darcy do?” Too late, she realized how treacherous the subject was. Or…er…not too late. It was a superb question that would only bring out Rupert’s dark side.

  “You’re a fan,” Rupert said flatly.

  “We’re an odd sort of family, don’t you think? We should all support each other.”

  “I can’t get past what she did, and neither should you.” The vibe he was giving off was non-twitch-worthy. Here was the Rupert of old.

  And yet her attraction didn’t wane. “Darcy made your father happy.”

  “And she made your mother miserable.” Rupert held the door to the bakery for her. “Why defend her?”

  It was time for a change in subject, normally something she was quite good at. Words escaped her. The image of his broad shoulders did not.

  She scurried inside. The bakery was filled with enticing, warm smells. There were a few people in line ahead of them but no one she knew well enough to greet heartily and use to ignore Rupert for a minute or two.

  “Did you file something for Mama’s little grievance?” Lordy, she hoped not.

  “I’m still trying to decide how best to present it. Cases of she-said versus she-said aren’t impossible to win, but they are tricky to position based on the law.”

  “Take your time.” Bitsy’s eye caught on a chocolate-drizzled croissant filled with cream cheese. Premenopause, she would’ve been all-in on that.

  They placed their coffee orders.

  “And we’ll split that chocolate croissant.” Rupert pointed to the treat. “I saw you looking at it.”

  He’d been watching her? The twitch shuddered in her veins. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “I couldn’t either, not unless I only ate half.” He gazed at her with that compassionate expression he’d given her on the street corner earlier.

  A warm feeling engulfed Bitsy, a swirl of feeling that bound the two of them together and promised other decadent things to be shared—gelato, birthday cake, bottles of wine.

  “I’ll get us a table.” Bitsy forced herself to turn away, to contain the urge to beam up at a man she was completely wrong for and could be the death of. Widow-maker. She avoided the more intimate tables in the back and chose one near a window and the sidewalk.

  Rupert followed her, carrying a tray with their lattes, the croissant, and two forks. “How are you holding up?”

  “Me? I’m fine.”

  “You look a bit harried.” He made the first move on the croissant, breaking off a piece with a fork. “Busy day? Or has your mother been taking up a lot of your time?”

  “You mean since your father died?” She felt compelled to make a move of her own, taking a big, flaky piece oozing with cream cheese. “I should ask you how you’re handling his passing.”

  “But you won’t.” He took a sip of coffee. “You’re too polite.”

  “And you discourage intimacy.” That was totally the wrong word to use. Her cheeks heated.

  Rupert raised an eyebrow, which only served to make him look more handsome.

  “Friendship, I mean. You discourage it.” She couldn’t hold on to her dignity and not explain herself. “And community too. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. You’re a successful attorney in a small town. You buy anything that matters in Denver—your car, your furniture, your clothes. And despite years of our parents being companions, this is the first time you’ve asked me to coffee.”

  “A mistake on my part,” he said smoothly. “I hadn’t realized what a stimulating conversationalist you are.”

  “And just like any good lawyer, you divert attention from here”—she pointed at him—“to here.” She pointed at herself, realizing they were alike in their ability to deflect.

  “All right, I’ll get to the point.” Instead Rupert hesitated, smiling at Bitsy in a way that made her feel appreciated as a woman. Her bazingas might be confident after all. “I’m looking for a witness who might have overheard Darcy or my father declaring intent to give your mother the dog.”

  Shiitake mushrooms! She’d read his appreciation all wrong. He was looking for a star witness, not a star in his eye.

  “George wasn’t likely to have a conversation about something like that in front of anyone.” Bitsy stabbed another piece of croissant. It broke apart, the way her twitch should be crumbling. She speared the lesser half. “From day one, that dog was his.”

  “And what about Darcy?” Rupert continued his gentle interrogation.

  “We haven’t spent much time together.” Her portion of croissant fell to the table. “Is that why you asked me…”—Out?—“for coffee? To see if I’d be a witness for your case?”

  He studied her—from her black headband to the ribs below her bazingas. “You’d make a compelling…witness.”

  He was toying with her. Bitsy shook her head. It was time to face facts. She was old enough to have babysat for Rupert when he was young enough to need a sitter. This twitchy infatuation with him was going nowhere. “Were you angry at Darcy when you weren’t appointed judge?”

  Rupert shrugged, half frowning. “She’s a temp. The election in the fall is what matters.”

  “So you were angry.” She watched him over the rim of her coffee mug. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Please. Take the stand.” He sat sideways, legs crossed at the knee, one hand on his mug, one eye on her.

  “One of my husbands was a fantastic armchair quarterback. He could call plays and read defenses quicker than the television announcer. But he couldn’t throw a football farther than across the living room. Not that it was his fault. He had a bum shoulder. But he was a fantastic referee. He called all the high school games.”

  Rupert’s grip on the mug tightened. “You think I should be satisfied where I am.”

  “I think people who stop to appreciate what they’ve got are happier in general.” She should listen to her own advice. Bitsy took the last bite of croissant, gathered her purse, and took one last look at Rupert’s handsome face across fr
om her. This was one of those moments that happened rarely and wouldn’t likely happen again. She’d put an attractive, powerful man in his place. “Thank you for the coffee.” All she had to do was walk away without looking back, without validating she cared what he thought.

  She reached the door, willing herself not to glance over her shoulder.

  She did.

  Rupert was looking at her. And not with disdain.

  Him, the twitch whispered.

  Bitsy went the long way around the block to reach her car. If she hadn’t, Rupert would have had a clear view of her rubbery-legged stride nearly the entire way. He would have known she, an older woman, found him attractive.

  If he didn’t know already.

  * * *

  “What’s up with your leg?” Ken demanded when everyone else had left the stockroom. “And don’t lie to me.”

  Jason considered doing exactly that. For about two seconds. “It’s nothing. Nerve twinges, Doc says. He thinks it will fade in time.”

  Ken circled him, staring at his leg. “But you can ride?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I haven’t tried.”

  “Not even one of those old geezers at Bull Puckey Breeding?” Ken’s intense gaze rose to Jason’s face. “That’s not like you.”

  Again, he tried not to admit anything. Again, he was unsuccessful. “Okay. I’m concerned that the twinge might disrupt my concentration during competition.”

  “We’ll get you an appointment with an orthopedic sports doctor. No more of this country doc stuff. If we leave tomorrow—”

  “I’m not leaving.” Jason set his chin.

  Ken propped his hands on his hips. “Because of Darcy?”

  Jason nodded.

  “Unless you’re planning on retiring, I wouldn’t let this twinge go too long.”

  Jason filled his lungs with air to argue, and…nodded.

  His mother yanked open the curtain separating the store from the storeroom. “Ken, where are you staying while you’re in town?”

  “Oh.” Ken hadn’t prepared his answer to that question.

  “Don’t worry. You can stay with me.” Jason’s mother had the sweetest smile and the best of intentions. “Although I’m meeting friends in Greeley for dinner tonight, I always have the guest bed made up and ready for company.”

  Ken gave the sweater vest he still wore a little tug, an unspoken reminder that he didn’t want to spend this visit ensconced in knitted wear. Which he would be if he stayed at the Petrie homestead. Jason’s mother was overly protective of those in her sphere and showered them with knitted gifts.

  Much as he enjoyed seeing his agent squirm, Jason interceded. “Mom, the guest bed is a twin and—”

  “Ken is single,” Mom said firmly while still maintaining the sweet tone of a parent who made cookies from scratch. She treated all Jason’s friends and colleagues like they were underage. “A twin is adequate. I can give you a key, Ken. Just make sure you’re in by ten.”

  The men exchanged glances. Jason shrugged, as if to say, I tried, man.

  “Thanks for the offer, Mrs. P,” Ken said smoothly. “But I have to maximize my time with Jason. We have a lot of business to discuss, as you can imagine.” He pushed Jason out the door.

  They walked several feet down the sidewalk before Jason risked saying, “You know, I live above Iggy’s garage. You can sleep on my couch, but frankly, you might have been more comfortable in my mom’s twin bed.”

  “With her curfew? No.” Ken pointed at his rental. “Get in. I could use a shower. Take me to your Batcave.”

  They got into his Lexus. It smelled like new. Like Rupert’s leather couch. Like the way a successful man’s vehicle should smell. Jason had lived like a vagabond for so long, saving money for his and Darcy’s future, that he had a sudden urge to buy a ranch, a new truck, and a big, big bed.

  “Have you told the missus that she’s a missus?” Ken and his dry sense of humor.

  “Yes. I’m giving her time to let things sink in.” He directed Ken to Iggy’s house. It wasn’t far from downtown, but then again, nothing was in Sunshine.

  From the driveway, Ken craned his neck to look at the garage apartment, making a disapproving noise. But he stayed quiet until they were upstairs in Jason’s place. “I had no idea. This is wrong. You’ve earned more than a million dollars from prize money and endorsements. Why are you living like a ranch hand or a grocery store clerk?”

  Jason bristled. “Because I was saving to buy a spread and build my wife a dream home. What does it matter where I keep my stuff? I’m never here anyway.”

  “No.” Ken shook his head. “You’re going about this all wrong. The way you live. The way you give Darcy all the time in the world to take a break or realize being married to you is a good thing. If you had the spread and a show of wealth, she’d be beating a path to your door.”

  “As would every other buckle bunny in America. I grew up without much. I don’t need the trappings of wealth.” But he didn’t put as much emphasis on his words as he would have an hour ago, before he’d ridden in Ken’s fancy rented Lexus.

  Ken moved into Jason’s bedroom and sat on the bed. “I’ve failed you. I should have come up here sooner. I’m cringing inside imagining you hobbling up those stairs with a cast on your leg. In the dark. In the snow.”

  “Barefoot,” Jason added, straight-faced.

  “Yes, barefoot!” Ken tossed up his hands. “This is all my fault. But I’m going to clear everything up. Your leg. Your love life. Your career.”

  “Maybe you should stay with my mother.” Because Ken was beginning to sound overly nurturing.

  His agent ignored him. “What else is going on with you? Tell me everything. I know there’s more.”

  “Well…” Jason fidgeted, and not because of any leg twinge. He was embarrassed to admit another of his problems to Ken. “There’s this lawsuit.”

  Ken clapped a hand over his eyes.

  Jason explained about Tom Bodine. When he was finished, Ken did some deep breathing exercises. It was a good thing that Jason was used to Ken’s method of reducing stress, or he might have been freaked out.

  And then Ken stopped and pointed at Jason. “I know exactly what to do and where to start.”

  “You do?” Jason had a bad feeling about this.

  “Yes. You’re going to go tell your wife you need a place to stay while I’m here. Just a few days. During which time you can flash your pearly whites and repair whatever needs fixing at her place with those big muscles of yours. Also, ply her with promises of forgiveness, fidelity, and the house of her dreams.”

  “She’s actually not impressed by wealth. And plus, she inherited the old man’s money.”

  “Stop with the negativity.” Ken waved his arms madly, very un-Ken-like.

  “She’ll never agree to let me stay.” There was the little thing called her reputation.

  “Stop.” Ken glared at him. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Need I mention dandruff shampoo and hemorrhoid cream?”

  Ken scoffed. “You can do whatever your ego bends to, Jason. Now go. I need a shower and a power nap before I send out that video. Oh, and leave me a key.”

  Jason grinned. “Promise to be home and in bed by ten?”

  “Go!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Darcy. What a surprise.” Bitsy opened the door to her mother’s cottage Tuesday evening wearing pink capris, a flowered blouse, and a look that was anything but surprised.

  Wink-wink.

  It had been Bitsy’s idea that Darcy come to the cottage on George’s property. She’d called Darcy just after five, suggesting the visit with the hope that it would weaken Pearl’s resolve to sue. Darcy wasn’t optimistic, but she was willing to try anything at this point. And so even though she was tired and hungry and intrigued by further Jason sightings, Darcy had changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and come over as the sun disappeared behind Saddle Horn Mountain.

  “Let her in, Bitsy.
” Pearl stood on a stool in the small kitchen. She was cleaning her cabinets, scrubbing with all her might in a T-shirt and jeans that looked like they might fall off her. The contents of her china cabinets were strewn about the counter, stacks of china and mismatched coffee mugs and glassware. “Darcy can haul out the trash when she leaves my dog here.”

  “I brought salad.” Darcy and Stogey entered the cottage. Darcy handed Bitsy a plastic container of salad she’d bought at Emory’s Grocery.

  “Mama doesn’t eat enough vegetables.” Bitsy thanked her. “Wasn’t that nice of Darcy to bring you something? We were just talking about you.”

  “Pfft.” Pearl kept scrubbing. “You were talking.”

  Darcy hadn’t been in the cottage since Pearl had moved in. The one-bedroom bungalow looked different. Whereas before there had been some photographs of George, they were everywhere now. On the small mantel. On the two end tables. On the TV console cabinet. They weren’t the typical pictures of a happy couple. They were just of George. Young George. Middle-aged George. Elderly George walking Stogey.

  “Didn’t there used to be a picture of you on the mantel?” Darcy asked Bitsy, who shushed her.

  “Why are you here?” Pearl demanded, stopping her scrubbing long enough to glare at Darcy.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to come over this weekend and box up some of George’s things.” That, too, had been Bitsy’s idea.

  “I can’t. I’m devastated.” Pearl pulled her features into something resembling a sad, insincere face. “Someone thinks they can have everything.”

  Bitsy and Darcy sighed at the same time. Stogey put his nose to the hardwood and waddled around the room and then into the bedroom.

  “You see? Stogey feels at home here.” Pearl resumed her scrubbing. “Let me and my dog wallow in our grief.”

  Stogey was unlikely to wallow in anything but the fuzzy blanket at the end of Darcy’s bed.

  A cat hissed in the bedroom. Stogey yelped.

  “Stogey?” Darcy walked toward Pearl’s bedroom.

  “Do not cross my wallowing boundary,” Pearl warned, stopping Darcy in her tracks.