by Beth Carter
“Oh, my God,” Tucker shifted to face her. “Did they survive?”
“Not at first. I mean, I was told they didn’t. Authorities said no one could have survived the impact.” She sniffled. “We even had a funeral for Larry and Montana, my parents.”
“Something tells me they’re alive, am I right?”
“Yes and no.”
His brows shot up. “Go on.” Hope explained how her father became a janitor at her school but doesn’t remember the past, nor her, nor his thought-dead wife at the time. He remarried Willow, an art teacher at Hilltop.” She brightened. “After I read a newspaper article about a woman in a nursing home who crocheted macramé plant hangers, I knew it had to be Montana, the mother who raised me.” A sob escaped. “I just realized she brought me to you.”
“In Nashville?”
“Yes, she was in a nursing home there—was being the operative word.” Her voice wobbled. “She took her own life a day or two before we arrived. Larry still doesn’t remember her. If that isn’t bad enough, he insists his name is Mac. I mix up his names constantly. I try to abide by his wishes in front of the students since he works at Hilltop, but my whole life, he has been Larry.” She held Tucker’s confused stare. “I told you it was complicated.”
“Man.” Tucker leaned back and stared out the window, and then back toward Hope. “You weren’t kidding. You did have a rough childhood.” He reached for her hand. “I’m sorry you went through that. Do you know who your biological parents are?”
Hope nodded. “That’s the silver lining. I met my biological father at my ‘dead’ father’s funeral. His name is Paul and he’s an attorney. He attended the service after he heard the tragic news. He wanted to meet me.”
“Wow. And your mother?”
“She died after giving birth.” Hope wiped a tear off her cheek. “The only thing I have of hers is a beautiful pearl necklace.”
“What a wonderful keepsake,” Tucker said. “I’m sure you wear it on special occasions.” He brushed another tear off her cheek with his thumb. “Didn’t you say you’re a school counselor?”
“Probably not the best counselor since all of this drama happened, but I love my students.” She leaned back. “Tell me about you.”
Tucker sat silent for a minute. “Our stories are somewhat similar, yet not. My parents died in a tourist helicopter crash when I was a senior in high school.”
Hope gasped. “How awful. I’m sorry.” She reached for his hand. “What did you do? Where did you go?”
“My aunt and uncle in Alabama took me in. It was hell losing my parents, plus switching schools my senior year.”
She grimaced. “And during your senior year . . . It had to be tough losing them and being uprooted from your friends at the same time.”
Tucker’s eyes reddened as he stroked his beard. “I was close to my cousin at least. He was my age.” He glanced away. “He’s the one who got killed in a motorcycle accident last year.”
Hope winced. “I remember you mentioned that over the phone when we reconnected. That’s tragic.”
Nodding, he said, “I’m sorry for both of us. I think we were supposed to be together—not to scare you away or anything.” Tucker added, “Forget I said that. I just meant—”
Hope crooked her arm through his. “I know exactly what you mean, and I agree. We both had troubled upbringings.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, considering you’re a school counselor, I’m ashamed to say, I skipped school my final semester, was in detention several times, and mad at the world. I didn’t care if I graduated.”
Her mouth fell open. “Tell me you graduated.”
He shook his head. “Nope, and I only had one semester left. I’ve always been ashamed of that. I was more interested in making money, getting away from life, and got a job as an over-the-road trucker. I wanted to see the countryside. I wanted to get out of Alabama. I could never sit behind a desk and be inside all day.”
She shifted on the couch to face him. “I can help you study for a G.E.D. if you’re interested or you can take classes at Hilltop.”
He laughed. “I don’t think I’d fit in a tiny school desk, but thanks. I’ll think about the G.E.D. I would like a diploma someday.”
She decided to switch gears. “What do you like best about your job?”
“The scenery, meeting people at truck stops, the good pies at country diners, and the comradery among the truckers. The long delivery hours by the end of the week get a little old, though.” He yawned as if to punctuate his statement.
“You’re tired again,” Hope said. “Should I order the food now?”
“I’m still full from that shake.”
Hope laughed. “Me too. I can make some popcorn. I do have that.”
“Perfect.” Tucker placed his arm across the back of the couch. Hope leaned against him. This feels good. It feels right. But it’s way too soon to be having those thoughts. Alarming herself, she jumped up. “What toppings do you like on your popcorn?”
“Salt.”
“Perfect.” She giggled. “Be right back.”
Hope started the popcorn in the microwave. When she returned, Tucker was gazing out the window. Two little boys on scooters raced on the sidewalk. He pointed toward them. “I never had a scooter, did you?”
Laughing, she said, “I don’t think I would have had enough balance for one.” She followed his gaze and watched the boys.
After a few moments, Tucker stared at Hope, then hesitated.
“What?” she asked.
“Have you ever wanted kids?”
Hope’s eyes widened. Swallowing, obviously not expecting this turn in the conversation, she said, “Um, I never really thought about having any. I have plenty of kids at school.” She shrugged. “I get to see them during the day and go home to peace and quiet at night. No middle-of-the-night diaper changes like my friend, Suzy, will be enduring.”
He nodded. “Fair point.”
The microwave dinged and Hope excused herself. Returning with a huge, warm bowl of salty goodness, they watched a movie while munching on the snack. Halfway through, Tucker fell sound asleep on the couch. Hope stared at his face trying to remember every crease and every laugh line.
He obviously felt her stare and awoke. “I’m sorry. You must be bored to tears. I hope I didn’t snore.” He stretched. “I need some shuteye. I hope you don’t mind if I leave early.”
“Not at all. I usually go to bed early any way.”
“Me too.” As they stepped across her tiny living room, Tucker awkwardly put his arms around Hope’s shoulders. He leaned down, turned his head to the right, and she went the same direction. Trying again, he went the other way, and she followed suit. He roared. “Clearly, we’re both out of practice.”
Surprising herself with unfamiliar confidence, Hope stood on her tiptoes, took his face in her hands, and placed a soft kiss on his lips.
“I love a woman who’s in charge.” Tucker tipped her chin up and gave her a longer kiss. A soft moan—which surprised her—escaped. Hope felt a tingle she had never experienced before. Pulling back, she said, “Uh, thanks for-for the park, the ducks, the ice cream, and—”
He kissed her cheek and reached for the door handle. “To be continued.” Cocking his head, he said, “Are you free next weekend? I’ve got several chores tomorrow and need to plan my routes for the week.”
“I’m free,” Hope said a little too quickly. She felt her cheeks redden. “I think I’m supposed to play hard to get.”
“Nah. I hate games. See you then. You get to decide what we do, but I’ll pay.”
Chapter 17
After lunch, Alex was tense after yet another annoying marketing dust-up with Miss Know-It-All Big Boobs over the design of the bank’s new website
. Obviously, Hannah, her intern-turned-boss—thanks to a freaking board meeting catastrophe that her intern had engineered—was into anything minimalist, miniscule, and impossible to read. Hannah had evidently told the designers to use a black background and a teeny tiny font that wouldn’t be visible on an optometrist’s eye chart.
Hands on hips, Alex squinted at the suggested new design. “Hannah, I can barely read this. How many times do I have to tell you that our customers skew older? I’m sure several have bifocals, glaucoma—or worse. Hell, if I can barely read this, I know they can’t.”
Hannah stared transfixed at the screen. “Are we ever going to modernize this bank? Get into the Twenty-First Century?”
“Okay, maybe we’re a little behind in updating our site, but you know how stingy the board is. Some of the senior vice presidents suggested we go with the motto of Old-fashioned Banking.” Alex shook her head. “I think a couple of them would be just fine if we had typewriters on the loan assistants’ desks.”
“Oh, my God,” Hannah said. “Typewriters? Seriously?”
“I’m assuming you’ve never used one.” Peering at the screen again, Alex said, “Getting them to agree to revamp our website is a huge step. We can’t blow it with some trendy, youthful appearance using a tiny font that isn’t legible.”
Hannah huffed. “Fine. I’ll ask the designers to work something else up. Any ideas?”
Alex ticked off on her fingers. “Bright, cheery, and professional. Use our logo colors. Show photos of some of our good customers, with their consent, of course. I’m sure your dad would love to be in a photograph or two. In fact, why don’t you take a few photos of him behind his desk, at the teller line, and shaking hands with a customer? See if he’ll write a personal letter welcoming customers to Show-Me Bank that we can add to the website with a ‘Contact Us’ button or a ‘Meet the President’ page.” Pausing, when she noticed Hannah hadn’t taken any notes, she added, “And readable. No black backgrounds and no microscopic fonts. Got it? I have an errand to run.”
Hannah pointed toward her head. “Of course I’ve”—she made air quotes—“Master’s degree, remember?”
“How could I forget? You mention it daily.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes, “You’re acting a little too testy since we’ve switched rolls after your hateful email to the board. Remember? Mrs. Timmons was none too happy with you.” She dared Alex with her eyes.
Alex glared at her. “After you hit ‘reply all’ to the damn email I sent to you and only you. You and I both know you did it on purpose.”
“Think what you want.” Hannah’s gaze fell toward the lobby. A pink hue crept up her neck. Alex followed her stare and spotted Tony’s hateful cop brother, Sean. “You’re playing with fire, Hannah. Actually, a full-blown explosion. He’s a jerk and he’s married to a woman who’s worse, if that’s possible.”
Stiffening her shoulders, Hannah said, “Aren’t we supposed to be discussing bank business?”
“It’s your life.” Alex shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you . . . multiple times.” Alex eyed Sean, who locked eyes with her. She glared at him, then faced Hannah. “This will not end well.”
Tapping on her iPad, Hannah ignored her. “Back to the website.”
Chapter 18
As Cheri stopped at a Starbucks drive-thru, her phone lit up with an incoming text from Cole: Hey, New York. I’m back from the cattle auction. Want to get together tomorrow?
She had to hold herself back from replying, “What about tonight?” and instead responded that she’d meet him. As she set her latte in the cup holder, she grinned. I’ve missed the cowboy.
~ ~ ~
As she approached Branson, Cheri took the exit toward Target instead of going home. I think I’ll buy a new casual outfit for my date with Cole. While holding a pair of white denim shorts and a teal top, she waited in line at the checkout. She reached for a pack of mints and nearly choked. Oh, my God. No.
Cheri stared aghast at multiple copies of The National Enquirer in a rack near the register. A story featuring her public breakup with Sebastian on a Manhattan sidewalk was splashed across the cover in big, bold letters. As if that weren’t enough, there was a sidebar story complete with photos about her high-society lifestyle and wealthy parents. After glancing from side to side and over her shoulder as if all of Branson knew she was the Cheri Van Buren who was pictured, she ushered other customers ahead of her and grabbed every issue off each checkout stand. She reached for handfuls at a time, threw them in her cart, paid at the self-checkout, and rushed outside. After driving to three grocery stores, Walmart, two liquor stores, and three gas stations, she hoped she had bought every magazine in town. I don’t have time to drive back to Crystal City and buy all of these crappy rags. Damn you, National Enquirer.
Pushing her hair out of her eyes, her heart pounded, knowing she had to tell Cole everything—absolutely everything about her pedigree—before he saw the gossip magazine, not that she thought for a second that he read it, but still, she wanted to explain why she hadn’t yet divulged her family history face to face.
She stacked a three-foot tall pile on the seat and turned the top one upside down. Unable to bear seeing her former fiancé’s face on the cover and knowing how her mother would react, she debated whether to call Victoria Van Buren first or to initiate the difficult conversation with the sweet cowboy. She voted for the cowboy.
Struggling with the slippery magazines, she thrust them into an outside trash bin without bothering to read the article. She took a deep breath, marched inside her house, and settled into a comfortable chair. Heart still racing, she dialed Cole’s number.
He picked up after half a ring. “Howdy, New York. You do remember we just spoke.”
Breathlessly, she attempted to calm herself. “Yeah, I-I remember.” Feeling immense relief since he obviously hadn’t seen the magazine, she forced a light tone. “I wanted to verify the time tomorrow.”
“Noon sound good?”
Grinning into the phone, she said, “Perfect. I’ll be there with boots on.” Suddenly at a loss for words and dreading ‘the talk’ Cheri ended the conversation. As the phone went dead, her thoughts raced. I hope this relationship has a chance before it really starts. Pacing, Cheri wondered what to wear for a potential breakup conversation in case Cole didn’t handle the news well. Maybe I should be dripping with diamonds. Let him see firsthand the real me. She shook her head, even though no one was there. “No, that might make matters worse.”
Chapter 19
Dressed in white-fringed denim shorts, the teal shirt she had bought at Target during the memorable shopping trip, and brown cowboy boots, Cheri got to Cole’s farm in record time.
She was surprised to see him sitting in his old Chevy pickup. Cole waved her over. When Cheri got inside his truck, she grinned. “Hey, cowboy. Great to see you.”
“Same, New York.” He didn’t kiss her and reached for a CD. “I’m glad I installed a CD player in my ancient truck. Want to hear some music?”
She nodded as he placed a CD in the opening. As the truck idled, Cole slid his arm across the top of the seat.
Cheri leaned against the headrest. “Music sounds nice.”
“Rich Girl” by Daryl Hall & John Oates filled the air. Cheri bolted upright as Cole stared straight ahead, poker faced.
She stiffened, remembering all of the magazines she bought in Branson.
“Nice song, don’t you think?” Cole asked.
Listening to the words, Cheri wondered if Cole had an ulterior motive or if the song was pure coincidence. She glanced out the window, wondering exactly how to bring up the topic of her wealth and family.
Keeping time to the music with his thumb on the steering wheel, Cole said, “I can’t imagine being rich. I only know how to be poor. My last name might be ‘Cash’ but that’s the ex
tent of my wealth.
Cheri swallowed. He isn’t making this easy. She decided on a vague route. “Have you ever known any rich people?”
Scratching his head, Cole said, “Nope. My family and friends ain’t rich, that’s for sure.”
She stiffened. “Do you have anything against wealthy people? Any preconceived notions, I mean?”
Shrugging, he said, “’Spose not. I kinda doubt they’d be down to earth or relate to me, though.”
Remembering their fun outings of rock skipping, arrowhead hunting, camping, and a drive-in movie made Cheri smile. “I don’t know why not. I imagine you could teach them the fun, simpler things in life.”
He grinned. “And that might last a day or two and then he or she would be bored silly.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I assume rich people like the finer things in life. Expensive wine. Fast cars. Yachts. Travel abroad.” Cocking his head, Cole said, “A country boy can’t compete with that.”
Cheri’s mind raced. She had loved her adventures with Cole. Embracing nature was a joy compared to her usual hectic lifestyle in Manhattan. Before she lost her nerve, she blurted out, “Cole, I’m going to be totally honest with you. I’m rich. Filthy rich.”
Eyes crinkling, he ran his fingers through his hair. “Thanks for bein’ honest.”
“What?”
Reaching underneath his seat, he plucked out an issue of The National Enquirer and placed it on the seat between them. A photo of Cheri and Sebastian were splashed across the cover. Her face was circled in red. He chuckled. “Can’t say I’ve ever been on a magazine cover. Bein’ with a cowboy in an old sixties Chevy pickup ain’t exactly high society, New York.”
“Oh, my God. Where did you get that?” Her voice wobbled, afraid to meet his eyes.