McCormick's Creek Sweet Romance

by Jen Peters

  There was hardly any room inside the cement-floored space. Spindly chairs, a worn desk, and several ratty sofas nested into each other. Large pictures were wrapped in blankets and numerous cardboard boxes were stacked against one wall. Where to start?

  She hoped a Victrola would be too large to be in a box. There was no way she was rummaging through those and then re-stacking them! So she moved lamps, looked in corners, checked the space where chairs were nestled upside down into couches. Nothing. Harriet would just have to find one through one of her contacts.

  But Ree’s curiosity was piqued. She still didn’t like the landscape Harriet had picked to hang in the welcome hall. So what were the paintings hiding here?

  She carefully unwrapped one, setting the blanket aside and turning the painting over. Another landscape, all in monochromatic browns. Ugh. Why would anyone paint that? And why would Mitch keep it?

  She re-wrapped it carefully and opened the next. It was a portrait of a young woman, her blonde hair styled with top curls, her smile knowing, her eyes sparkling with mirth. She was beautiful, as was the sapphire evening gown she wore. Ree was intrigued, but there was no identifying plaque attached to the fancy gilt frame.

  She re-wrapped it, set it next to the first painting, and pulled the packing paper off the last one.

  The man staring out at her was Mitch!

  Well, perhaps not. His dark hair was cut differently and he wore an old-fashioned suit, but the same gray-green eyes blazed with energy and the mouth quirked up with the same smile. His nose, his jaw, everything said this was a portrait of Mitch. Except it wasn’t.

  She carefully replaced the blanket around it, maneuvered it into the backseat of her car, and locked up the storage unit. There were questions to be answered.

  Back at the inn, she unwrapped the portrait of Not-Mitch and studied it. There had to be clues here. She didn’t know men’s fashion enough to date it, but it was earlier than the 70s at least, or he’d be in bell-bottoms and his hair would be longer. Somewhere around the 40s or 50s, maybe.

  There was a signature on the bottom, but all she could read were the initials— P and A. Not enough to Google.

  She wished now she had brought the woman’s portrait with her. The frames matched, they were similar ages—were they a couple? And could she have read the artist’s signature on that one?

  Then she gave herself a hard mental slap and turned the portrait over, carefully resting it against the wall.

  In the top right corner, in delicate handwriting, was penciled “Alexander F. McCormick, 1949.”

  Ree sank onto the floor in front of the painting. This was old Mr. McCormick? But why did he look exactly like Mitch? He wasn’t a McCormick.

  Or was he? Relatives didn’t have to have the same last name as earlier generations. She scrambled to her feet and headed for the computer, kicking herself for not doing it earlier.

  A Google search turned up plenty of information. Mitchell Blake was a Mergers & Acquisitions lawyer for McCormick & Associates—so he was connected. He was credited with numerous hostile takeovers and had been in line for a partnership. Instead, he had just inherited the majority shares in the firm.

  Her breath came in tight, tiny gasps.

  Mitch didn’t just work as an attorney, he owned the firm.

  He was probably richer than rich.

  And he’d never said a word.

  Ree’s fingers clicked mindlessly on various articles. Her eyes scanned the words without taking in their meaning, until she stopped at a picture.

  Mitch with a dazzling Melanie Xanthe at a society function. His arm was draped around her shoulders, and she was gazing rapturously up at him.

  Business associate, my foot!

  Ree pushed through her work for the next two days, receiving supplies for the inn, supervising the finishing touches inside and out, squeezing in flower arrangements and college assignments when she could. Her mind churned as she planted azaleas in the memorial garden. She played out possible confrontations with Mitch as she snipped roses for the entry table. She thought about simply ignoring it all as she unpacked linens and made beds.

  Accusing Mitch of keeping secrets wasn’t fair—a man had a right to his private life, after all. Except shouldn’t he be sharing some of that private life with her by now? If they were going to have any future together, he needed to—

  She stopped cold, the lavender sheet falling gracelessly to the mattress.

  A future together? As in a long-term commitment? She’d been falling in love and thought he was too. But was she really ready to think about something…permanent…with anyone? Except…she wouldn’t be so frustrated about Melanie Xanthe if she didn’t feel so connected to Mitch. A connection she had been sure he shared. The feel of her hand in his, the warmth in his eyes when they talked, those delicious kisses…

  She shut off the thoughts. If he shared the connection she felt, if he was falling in love with her too, surely he would have told her who he was.

  She couldn’t just ignore this. She was too curious, too wrapped up in him. Besides, she was so involved with the McCormick Inn that she had her own connections to Mr. Alexander F. McCormick.

  The inn would help her discover the answer.

  She left the unmade guest room bed and hurried to the welcome hall, pulling the boring landscape off the wall and setting it aside to be wrapped and put in the storage unit. She measured the spacing, tapped in new picture hangers, then hefted Alexander McCormick’s portrait into the space. She’d order a plaque with his name—it was fitting for the McCormick Inn, after all.

  She’d see what Mitchell Blake had to say about that.

  Chapter 26

  Mitch’s tension began to ease as soon as he turned off the freeway and up into the mountains Friday. Between the majesty of the trees and the lack of traffic, his soul felt freer before he even reached the town.

  The week had seemed endless, making decisions as CEO that affected nearly a hundred attorneys, dealing with new clients eager for his expert machinations, searching for a career shift that he could actually live with.

  He had no answers, but his heart lightened more as he entered McCormick’s Creek. The inn, the excitement of the wedding the next day, and Ree. He couldn’t help feeling better knowing he was about to see her.

  Mitch trotted up the steps of the McCormick Inn, but stopped abruptly in the entry hall. Someone had been snooping in the storage unit.

  There, above the Queen Anne table and its bouquet of iris and roses, was the portrait of his grandfather. His eyes had dimmed in recent years, but Mitch remembered their intensity well. A fresh wash of grief mixed with the anger rising in his heart. It would be impossible for anyone to see the portrait and not know who Mitch really was.

  “Ree!” he bellowed.

  She came out of the dining area. “Yes, Mr. Blake,” she said too sweetly. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  She hadn’t just been snooping, she was playing some game that was obviously coming to a head. “Did you hang this?” His voice was steel.

  “Why yes, of course. Don’t you think it’s an improvement over the landscape?”

  “Why were you in the storage unit? What were you looking for?”

  She marched up to him, hands on her hips. “I was looking for a Victrola, one of Harriet’s ideas. I found this instead. Anything you want to tell me?”

  He crossed his arms, his body as rigid as hers. “You went behind my back.”

  “I did not!” She stared him down. “I’m the manager, remember? It’s my job to look after the details and do the finish work.”

  He studied her. Her black hair was pulled up in a thick bun. Her face was set. Even her fingernails had gone from their usual blue or purple to an old fashioned pink.

  “What game are you playing? What are you really after here?" He didn’t want to do this dance with her. She had claimed to be honest, after all, and what she let him see had always reinforced that idea. He didn’t want to have t
hat perfect image blasted, but he had to know what was inside that quick mind of hers.

  “What am I playing at? You’re the one keeping secrets, Mr. I’m-Just-The-Attorney. You’re a McCormick yourself!”

  “Keeping secrets is what people do, especially in my line of work. Anyone who lives their life as an open book will get what they deserve.”

  She just looked at him, her eyes finally softening a touch. “And what do you deserve, Mitch?”

  “I deserve to live my life without everyone knowing my business." He strode to the wall and lifted the painting down. “I’ll mourn my grandfather in private, thank you.”

  “I know you miss him, but…” her eyes tracked from him to the painting and back. “Oh Mitch, he’s the one who died. This Alexander McCormick.”

  He nodded.

  “I had a surprise for you, for your grandfather’s memorial. Do you want to see it?”

  “Later.” He didn’t want to see anything right now, didn’t want to stay a moment longer than he had to, didn’t want to admit his heart was breaking. He carried the painting out the door and down to his car, folding the back seats down and carefully sliding it into the trunk. Then he turned back. “I do not want the whole town knowing, Ree.”

  “But why not? What’s wrong with being a McCormick?”

  A sense of loss washed over him once more. Just who was he?

  Was he a man missing the company of a grandfather who loved him? Or was he the heir to a company and a fortune, from whom people would expect many things?

  Was he the attorney whose name made small business owners tremble? Or was he someone else entirely, inheritance and expectations be damned?

  Was he a man in love with a woman who filled his soul? Or was he on his own, destined to wear a mask forever?

  He closed the trunk softly. He took one last look at Ree, slid into the Porsche, and headed back to Portland.

  * * *

  Ree watched Mitch peel out onto the road, not believing what she had just heard. She had known him, worked closely with him for weeks and weeks now, and he had kept who he was a total secret the whole time. How could he?

  She thought back over the times they had shared, the walk up to Warm Springs, the dinners that turned from business to personal, the warmth of his hand in hers, the delicious tingle when they kissed.

  It was all a lie.

  She took off for home, half-running a stop sign, taking a corner too fast. Ease off, Ree, she told herself, but she couldn’t seem to. At home, she yanked clothes off hangers and out of drawers, stuffing them into her suitcase. A box from the attic took her shoes and toiletries and jewelry. She’d had enough. Robin and Chris could handle the wedding tomorrow, and Mitch could find someone else to manage his precious inn. He certainly had the money to throw at whoever he wanted.

  She could find another job. She was almost done with her degree. She had friends in Portland who would let her bunk down as long as she needed.

  She thought of Melanie Xanthe, sleek and sophisticated and everything Mitch would want. Even if Melanie was manipulative, Mitch knew what to expect and how to handle it.

  How naive and gauche Ree must have seemed to him, prattling on about how she wanted to see Barcelona, to live in Paris. He had done all of that and more.

  “Ree, are you—" Her mother’s voice cut off as she entered the room. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m out of here,” Ree snapped. “I’ve had it with secrets and small towns and people looking down their nose at me and—”

  Mom laid a hand on her arm. “Breathe, Ree. Come on, take a deep breath and slow down. And tell me what happened.”

  “It’s Mitch. It turns out … ooh!” She threw a book across the room.

  “Ree!”

  Ree stuck her jaw out, but held her arm back from pitching another. “You know old Mr. McCormick who bought the mansion back? He’s his grandfather! Mitchell Blake is a McCormick, as rich as God and probably just as powerful.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  “It is when he doesn’t tell anyone.”

  Her mother’s voice was gentle. “When he doesn’t tell you, you mean.”

  Ree pulled her arm away. “Of course, when he doesn’t tell me. I thought we had something together.”

  “So you’re leaving before you can find out?”

  “No, I’m leaving because I’ve always wanted to leave. The inn and Mitch and you were the reasons I was staying around. But I told you before—I wanted something more than this hick town, and it’s obvious now I was right. I’m sure you can train someone else for the shop.”

  Mom shook her head. “You’re running away, Ree.”

  “I am not running away. I’m running to." Ree slid her iPad into her laptop bag. “Look Mom, you have the flower shop, and you love the greenhouse and breeding plants. You have your passion. Can’t you see that I deserve to find mine? And I can’t do it here?”

  Her mother took a deep breath. “You’re right. I know there’s a whole wide world out there, far more for you than for me. I just think you should be going for the right reasons.”

  Ree glared at her. “You just want me here as cheap labor.”

  Her mother gasped. “I would never…”

  Ree felt herself deflate. “I’m sorry, Mom, I know that. It just came out." Before she knew it, she was wrapped in her mother’s arms.

  “Sweetheart, I want you here because I love you. And yes, I’ve needed you desperately for the last few months. But I have other plans that I can work when you’re ready to go.”

  Ree stayed in the warmth of the hug for a bit longer. Her hip pocket buzzed. “Urmph, Mom? My phone’s ringing.” She untangled herself and answered.

  “What? She said what?" Ree listened intently while Chris explained Mrs. Markov’s latest request. She began to answer, then stopped as her eyes refocused on the open suitcase. “Look, Chris, I’m sure you and Robin can deal with it. Call Mitch if you need any help,” she finished before ending the call.

  She picked up odds and ends, a paperback here, a favorite pen there. She dropped them in the box, tucked them in with her clothes. Her mother stood to the side, watching silently.

  She paused with her favorite purple pen in her hand. Why was she so unsettled? It wasn’t just Mitch—she’d broken up with boyfriends before. And Mrs. Markov wasn’t that difficult to deal with. And if the wedding wasn’t quite the over-the-top success that she had hoped, well, Mitch would deal with that.

  She twirled the pen through her fingers. But Mrs. Markov was that difficult, or at least she could be. The woman was a professional wedding planner, and her take on the wedding would have repercussions for years. Robin and Chris weren’t quite up to handling her or the extra guests she was thrusting on them. Robin would probably go home in tears at the end, and Ree wouldn’t wish that on any friend, let alone her BFF.

  And they were both her friends. Her friends in this town that finally had some possibilities ahead of it. And this was her inn to manage! She had worked hard, and while she didn’t have any money invested, it was almost as much hers as it was Mitch’s.

  She bit down on the pen that had somehow ended up in her mouth.

  “Ree?” her mother asked quizzically.

  “Huh?” She had almost forgotten her mother was in the room. “Oh, it’s just … there are problems with the wedding plans tomorrow, and Chris and Robin need me. And you know what? It’s my inn. Mr. Mitchell Blake, Esquire can go jump in a lake for all I care!”

  Her mother grinned. “Go on, I’ll take care of these,” she said, waving a hand at the disheveled clothes. “You go do what you do best.”

  Ree gave her a quick hug and headed for the front door.

  Ree took the porch steps like a general with orders in hand. “Right,” she said, coming into the dining room. “What exactly did Mrs. Markov say?”

  Robin turned, relief breaking out on her worried face. “I’m so glad you’re here! I couldn’t believe that you’d just leave after all
the work you’ve done. And without telling me!”

  Ree hugged her briefly. “Forget that, just tell me the details.”

  Mrs. Markov had called, been very pleasant, but adamant that they find a way to seat 30 extra guests.

  “She’s doing this to test us,” Ree grumbled. “The whole thing is a test.”

  Chris gasped. “What? Why?”

  “Because she’s not just the mother of the bride, she’s a very successful wedding planner,” Robin said.

  Ree took a deep breath. “Right. So we’ve got to pull this off, no matter what it takes. Surely she can’t expect more rooms?”

  Chris shook his head, his earring sparkling in the light. “She didn’t say anything about that. Just 30 more guests for the wedding and the dinner.”

  Ree studied the welcome hall. “We’ve planned all the seating for outside, right? We don’t really have room to set up several more canopies now, not without ruining the look for the wedding itself. What about having some tables on the porch after all?”

  They walked outside. They could put three tables in the side garden, like they had done for the dinners, and the back porch would hold three more.

  “Not enough,” Ree said. She strode back inside and perused the hall again, then moved into the parlor area. “Right,” she said as she nodded. “Two in the side garden—we’ll need someone to string more lights there—three on the back porch, and three more tables in the parlor. That way there aren’t just two or three couples stuck in here by themselves. What do you think?”

  Robin stared at her. “I think you’ve turned into someone I don’t know. But yes, I’ll second all of that.”

  “Third,” Chris said with a grin, raising his hand. “I’ll do the rearranging and decorating in the parlor. It will look as beautiful as outside.”

  Ree looked at him. “Why are you hanging around for all the extra work? Isn’t head waiter enough?”

  Chris grinned. “Guess I just like you guys. Besides, you’re fair, and I figure you’ll pay me even if I wasn’t actually hired for it.”